A  THING  APART 


UNIV.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELEh 


A  THING  APART 

By 

Lucy  Stone  Terrill 


Dd 


Man's  love  is  of  man's  life  a  thing  apart; 
'Tis*  -woman's  whole  existence. —  Byron 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1921 

THE  BoBBS-MtHHILL  CoMPAKT 


Printed  in  th»  United  State*  of  A.tnerica 


A  PHOTOPLAY 
MADE  FROM  THIS  NOVEL 

KING   VIDOR 
DIRECTING   AND    PRODUCING 


PRESS   OF 

•  RAUNWORTH    ft    CO. 

•OOK    MANUFACTURER* 

BROOKLYN.    N.    V. 


To  my  mothers — who  have  given  to  an 
orphan  such  rich  daughterhood — 

F.  H.  N.  C.  F.  K. 

E.  E.  L.  L.  S.  B. 

L.M.H. 


2133271 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    LOVE  AND  REVELATIONS        13 

II    DISTORTED  VALUES 35 

III  A  NEW  UNIVERSE      .........  47 

IV  FATHER  AND  SON 69 

V    MAKING  A  DAY  OF  IT 86 

VI    Two  NOTES  AND  A  POSTSCRIPT 105 

VII    THEIR  PLAIN  TALK 132 

VIII    WOMEN  ARE  THREE        152 

IX  BURNING  His  BRIDGES     ........  183 

X    THE  TRINKET 211 

XI    GOSSIP  FROM  HOME 241 

XII    THE  QUIET  COMING 262 

XIII  DON'T  You  WANT  ME  278 


A  THING  APART 


A  THING  APART 

CHAPTER  I 

• 

LOVE  AND  REVELATIONS 

DANE  ELRIDGE  hurried  up  the  garden 
path,  bareheaded,  and  dressed  in  his  ten- 
nis things — a  splendid-looking  young  fel- 
low, well  muscled  and  lithe  limbed.  He 
had  a  haughty  young  face,  the  black  eyes 
a  trifle  too  cynical  for  the  knowledge  of 
only  twenty-four  years  and  his  slightly 
full  lips  threatening  to  develop  lines  of 
sullenness  at  the  corners.  A  peculiar  par- 
adox of  resemblance  gave  his  features  the 
form  and  something  of  the  delicacy  of  his 
mother's,  but  expressed  through  them  an 
indefinable  and  striking  likeness  to  his 
father. 

13 


14  A  THING  APART 

As  he  strode  along  the  path,  Dane  was 
so  engrossed  with  the  necessity  of  telling 
Judith  Kingston  that  she  was  going  to 
marry  him  that  he  formulated  aloud  dif- 
ferent possible  methods  of  approach: 

4 'Judith,  what  d'  you  say  if  we  get  mar- 
ried?"— this  formula  to  be  propounded  in 
an  offhand  manner  while  rowing,  or  per- 
haps while  taking  the  dog  for  a  walk. 

"On  the  square,  Judith,  I'm  crazy  about 
you;  let's  get  married  before  I  go  to 
Wyoming;  come  on,  be  a  sport," — out  in 
the  machine,  driving  right  along,  care- 
lessly. 

"Oh,  Judith,  I  love  you,  I  love  you!" 
this  version  impudently  upset  his  calmer 
cogitations,  suggesting  veranda  and  moon- 
light, reciprocal  arms,  Judith's  cheek 
against  his. 

Dane's  ears  scorched  at  the  thought,  but 
— Judith's  cheek  against  his,  it  was  a  dis- 
turbing and  rapturous  fancy  not  to  be  put 
aside  by  any  young  disdain  of  sentiment. 


LOVE  AND  REVELATIONS  15 

Nearing  the  house,  he  caught  sight  of 
his  mother  over  a  sunny  lawn,  sketching. 
He  turned  quickly  to  another  path,  but 
she  saw  him. 

"Oh,  Dane,  dear,"  she  called  in  her  thin 
animated  voice,  "come  here  a  minute, 
won't  you?" 

"Oh,  the  devil!"  he  muttered,  his  eager 
boyishness  dropping  from  him  like  a  gar- 
ment. 

"Just  a  minute,  dear." 

"What  d' you  want,  mother?  I'm  in  a 
hurry." 

His  mother  smiled  up  at  him  from  un- 
der her  big  spectacular  sun-hat.  For  sev- 
eral years  now  she  had  affected  spectacu- 
lar things.  Dane  abominated  them.  Her 
pink  apron  was  uniquely  patterned  and 
was  splotched  with  paint.  Several  truant 
gray  hairs  escaped  from  her  careless  coif- 
fure and  straggled  down  behind  her  ears. 
She  had  been  "doing  things"  to  her  hair 
lately,  but  like  everything  else  that  she 


16  A  THING  APART 

did,  the  result  fell  pathetically  short  of 
success.  Indicating  the  weird  color  blotch- 
es on  her  easel,  she  gazed  at  them  intently. 

"I  want  a  man's  opinion  of  it,  Dane.  I 
really  feel  that  I  Ve  got  hold  of  a  big  thing 
here.  Do  you  'get  it'?"  His  mother's 
slang  was  always  a  conscious  effort. 

Dane  gave  the  easel  a  quick  contempt- 
uous glance. 

"Oh,  sure.  It's  immense.  That  pas- 
sionate red  daub  in  the  middle  makes  a 
hit  with  me.  What's  the  name  of  it — 
'Sunshine  in  Hell,'  or  'War  at  Rest'?" 

Mrs.  Elridge  laughed — her  "ready- 
made  ripple"  as  Dane  and  his  father 
called  it,  that  was  so  falsely  merry. 

"Oh,  Dane,  how  funny!  But  listen, 
dear:  now  look.  I'm  trying  to  bring  the 
universal  balance — the  serenity  that  must 
eventually  come  out  of  this  dreadful  war — 
into  tangible  color  thoughts.  Can't  you 
sense  it?" 

"Oh,  rot,  mother !    You  know  this  stuff 


LOVE  AND  REVELATIONS  17 

makes  me  sick.  That  all  you  want?  I'm 
in  a  hurry." 

" That's  all,  you  cruel  critic — o-h,  you 
might  kiss  your  old  mother  if  you  can 
spare  the  time,"  she  suggested  indiffer- 
ently, "I  like  to  keep  realizing  that  you're 
really  home  again." 

Dane  had  taken  several  steps  away  from 
her  and  he  quickened  his  pace  at  her 
words,  pretending  not  to  have  heard.  His 
mother's  yearning  for  affection  embar- 
rassed him,  yet  even  in  that  she  was 
insincere,  the  pleading  in  her  eyes  always 
betraying  her  affected  carelessness.  Now 
Judith  was  exactly  the  reverse. 

With  the  thought  of  Judith  the  unpleas- 
antness left  his  face.  He  thought  again 
of  his  fancy  about  feeling  her  warm 
young  cheek  against  his,  and  with  the 
sweetness  of  the  thought  came  a  queer  dis- 
torted idea.  His  mother's  face  under  the 
big  sun-hat,  her  slender,  weary  little  face 
that  sometimes  reminded  him  of  the 


18  A  THING  APART 

pressed  flowers  she  was  always  tucking 
away  in  books,  strangely  became  like  Ju- 
dith's face,  and  the  false  gaiety  of  her 
words  he  reheard  in  Judith's  soft  sincere 
voice.  He  turned  on  his  heel  and  walked 
slowly  back  toward  his  mother,  filled  with 
the  strangest  sensation  he  had  ever  known. 
She  was  daubing  the  paint  brush  vaguely 
about  her  canvas  and  did  not  hear  him 
until  he  bent  over  her  and,  tipping  the 
floppy  hat  back  from  her  face,  kissed  her 
on  the  corner  of  her  mouth. 

"Little  old  mother,"  he  mumbled  in  her 
ear. 

"Why,  Dane,  dear!"  she  cried  out, 
reaching  up  for  him,  but  he  evaded  her 
arms  and  ran  up  the  path,  calling  back  a 
kindly  scoffing : 

"No,  mustn't  interrupt  *  Sunshine  in 
Hell';  can't  afford  to  be  careless  with  art, 
you  know,  mother." 

He  felt  gladly  buoyant  that  he  had  done 
it;  somehow  he  felt  closer  to  Judith,  and 


LOVE  AND  REVELATIONS  19 

t 

the  joy  in  his  mother's  voice  rang  pleas- 
antly in  his  ears.  As  he  crossed  the  soft 
lawn  by  the  little  round  pergola,  walled 
with  its  blossoming  clematis,  a  woman's 
high-pitched  argumentative  voice  struck 
all  pleasure  from  his  mind. 

" — But,  Ellen,  don't  you  realize  that 
girls  fall  in  love  even  when  they  know  the 
reasons  why  they  shouldn't.  Dane's  a 
handsome  thing,  and  I've  an  idea  his 
cynical  indifferent  ways  might  just  appeal 
to  a  wholesome  girl  like  Judith.  /  think 
you're  being  dreadfully  careless,  myself." 

Dane  had  stopped,  tense;  his  face 
slowly  reddening.  The  voice  that  an- 
swered was  Ellen  Lawson's — a  heavy 
voice,  very  sure  of  itself,  and  dominating, 
the  voice  of  Judith's  aunt  and  guardian. 

"You  wouldn't  worry  if  you  knew  Ju- 
dith better :  she  understands  exactly  what 
a  wife  could  expect  from  Dane.  She 
likes  him,  of  course.  We  talked  it  all  over 
a  few  days  ago.  Judith's  a  modern  girl, 


20  A  THING  APART 

and  she  knows  men  pr-etty  well,  I  can  tell 
you.  She'd  no  more  think  of  marrying 
Dane  than,  well,  than  you  would,  to  be 
exact." 

Dane  lifted  his  feet  heavily  and  moved 
away;  the  color  leaving  his  face  as  slowly 
as  it  had  come,  his  sunburned  cheek-bones 
sticking  out  of  his  whiteness  like  blotches 
of  paint.  Gradually  he  realized  that  the 
weakness  assailing  him  was  furious  anger 
— one  of  his  old  childish  uncontrollable 
furies.  His  whole  body  trembled.  He 
heard  himself  muttering  and  shut  his 
teeth  savagely  over  his  lip.  Stumbling 
up  the  veranda  steps  he  sat  down  in  a 
wide  swing.  Its  slight  motion  nauseated 
him.  His  throat  felt  as  if  it  were 
lined  with  burnt  paper.  So  intense  was 
his  rage  that  it  smothered  all  attempts 
at  coherent  thought. 

One  hateful  phrase  kept  reiterating 
through  his  chaotic  brain:  "She  knows 
men  pr-etty  well,  I  can  tell  you ;  she  knows 


LOVE  AND  REVELATIONS  21 

men  pr-etty  well."  And  tie  had  thought 
her  as  untouched  by  knowledge  as  a  wild 
rose,  had  thought  her  wholly  unconscious 
of  his  wild  consuming  love  for  her.  But 
she  had  even  " talked  him  over"  with  her 
aunt.  But  what  had  they  " talked  over"? 
He  wondered  in  a  vague  way  if  it  could  be 
the  girls  he  had  known — the  ones  he  had 
known  too  well ;  but  the  idea  died  of  itself 
for  the  girls  he  had  loved  carelessly  did 
not  even  assume  personalities  in  his 
mind. 

Finally,  scarcely  knowing  where  he 
went,  nor  why,  he  started  down  toward  the 
lake.  He  ran ;  and  as  he  ran  he  swore  wild 
boyish  oaths  that  oiled  his  anger.  He  found 
Judith  without  being  conscious  that  he 
was  hunting  for  her.  She  lay  face  down- 
ward in  the  warm  sand,  her  head  pillowed 
in  her  upflung  sun-browned  arms,  her 
.tangled  mass  of  bronzed  hair  aglow  with 
the  sun.  He  felt  a  childish  impulse  to 
hurt  her,  a  sensation  so  gripping  that  he 


22  A  THING  APART 

was  frightened  lest  he  should  obey  it,  so 
he  cleared  his  throat  noisily  as  he  neared 
her. 

Judith  lifted  her  head  slowly,  raised 
herself  by  propping  her  elbows  in  the 
sand,  and  cupped  her  chin  in  her  hands. 
Moist  sand  clung  to  her  chin  and  to  the 
tip  of  her  nose,  and  hung  in  the  little  curls 
about  her  flushed  face. 

"How  murderous  you  look,  Dane,"  she 
said,  yawning.  "  Somebody  swipe  your 
bathing  suit?" 

He  sneered  for  answer,  wondering  how 
he  had  ever  thought  he  loved  this  yawn- 
ing ordinary  girl.  Sitting  down  near  her 
head,  he  hugged  his  updrawn  knees,  de- 
ciding he  would  humiliate  her,  pay  her 
back  for  flirting  with  him,  ask  her  what 
he  had  done  to  make  her  think  he  was  so 
much  interested  in  her  that  she  had  dis- 
cussed it  with  her  aunt. 

Surprised  at  his  expression,  Judith 
pulled  herself  awkwardly  into  a  sitting 


LOVE  AND  EEVELATIONS  23 

posture.  As  she  settled  down  beside  him, 
her  bathing  suit  slipped  a  little  from  her 
shoulders,  revealing  a  band  of  whitest 
flesh  below  the  square  of  tan  on  her  chest. 

He  bent  swiftly  to  her,  caught  her 
shoulders  with  his  roughly  outflung  arm 
and  pressed  his  lips  hard  against  that 
white  sweet  flesh,  holding  his  head  tight 
to  her  body.  He  did  not  know  how  long 
he  held  her  so,  but  presently  he  realized 
that  Judith  had  not  resented  his  savage 
embrace — and  he  knew  that  Judith  loved 
him.  The  anger  and  passion  of  his  mood 
left  him  so  quickly  that  his  muscles  weak- 
ened and  tears  threatened  his  eyes.  He 
straightened  slowly  and  stared  away  from 
her.  Around  a  near  bend  of  the  lake  a 
sailboat  drifted  lazily  into  sight. 

"  Who— who's  that?"  he  muttered 
stupidly. 

"Your  father  and  Mrs.  Sangster," 
Judith  answered  with  a  queer,  broken  lit- 
tle laugh.  Her  voice  broke  his  agony  of 


24  A  THING  APART 

embarrassment  and  he  turned  to  her. 
Her  lips  trembled,  but  her  eyes  shone  and 
answered  his  gaze  unwaveringly.  What- 
ever old  Aunt  Lawson  had  meant,  she  had 
been  wrong — Judith  loved  him,  loved  him. 

"Oh,  Judith,"  he  whispered. 

"Oh,  Dane/'  she  whispered  back,  and  in 
her  smile  he  saw  the  same  understanding 
tenderness  that  sometimes  rested  in  his 
mother's  eyes.  It  was  a  queer  thing  that 
Judith  reminded  him  of  his  silly  little 
mother,  and  that  his  mother  made  him 
think  of  Judith.  With  a  little  murmur 
that  was  in  itself  a  caress,  Judith  leaned 
to  him  and  rested  her  cheek  gently  against 
his.  He  uttered  a  faint  exclamation.  He 
had  dreamed  she  would  do  that,  but  in- 
stead of  the  wild  ecstasy  he  had  imagined, 
the  caress  brought  a  clean  fine  emotion 
that  was  physically  like  the  plunging  of 
a  tired  body  into  clear  cool  water.  He  put 
his  arm  clumsily  about  her. 

"You — you  know  I've  wondered  how 


LOVE  AND  REVELATIONS  25 

it  would  feel  to  have  your  cheek  against 
mine.  It's — it's  queer." 

"That  isn't  queer;  you  are  queer, "  she 
corrected  softly. 

"Why?" 

"Oh,  mostly,  I  think,  because  you  pre- 
tend to  be  so  cynical  and  bored  about 
everything,  when  really  you're  very  dear 
and  decent  inside." 

"But  I'm  not  anything  to  brag  about, 
even  inside,"  he  confided  with  deep  and 
cleansing  seriousness.  "I  don't  seem  to 
have  any — oh,  I  guess  you'd  call  it  faith 
in  anybody.  I  didn't  want  to — to  love 
you;  I  tried  to  make  myself  believe  all 
sorts  of  rot  about  you.  I  even  wanted  to, 
oh,  you  know — to  try  you  out  the  way  I've 
always  done  with  the  girls  I've  played 
around  with.  But  I  couldn't  get  up  the 
nerve  even  to  touch  you." 

He  stopped,  a  painful  red  in  his  cheeks. 
Judith  moved  a  little  from  him  and 
watched  the  sailboat  drift  along  in  the 


26  A  THING  APAET 

sunny  waters  until  it  hid  from  sight.  She 
looked  so  serious  and  thoughtful  that  she 
reminded  him  of  her  Aunt  Ellen  and  he 
asked  abruptly: 

"Say,  what's  old  Aunt  Lawson  got  it  in 
for  me,  for  1  I  thought  she  was  sort  of  a 
pal  of  mine."  And  he  told  her  what  he 
had  overheard.  Judith  listened  with  a 
frankly  distressed  face  and  her  explana- 
tion was  halting  and  clumsy. 

"You — you  see,  I  didn't  dare  let  Aunt 
Ellen  get  the  faintest  suspicion  about  how 
I  really  felt  or  I  knew  she'd  take  me  fly- 
ing right  off  to  some  heathenish  place 
where  you'd  never  think  of  coming.  Of 
course  I  knew  right  away  we  were  going 
to  love  each  other!" 

He  stared  at  her,  wondering.  His  love 
was  a  troublesome,  awkward,  unwieldly 
thing  to  express,  but  Judith  spoke  of  it 
as  easily  as  she  would  have  talked  about 
the  weather.  He  felt  annoyingly  inex- 
perienced. 


LOVE  AND  REVELATIONS  27 

"But  the  thing  I  don't  get,"  he  said 
with  an  embarrassed  laugh,  "is  why  she 
objects  to  me.  I've  thought  myself  quite 
a  'catch.'  Spit  it  out,  Judith;  is  there 
insanity  in  the  family?" 

Judith  did  not  laugh. 

"Oh — I  don't  know  how  to  tell  you, 
Dane.  But,  but  she  thinks  that  after 
while  you'd  get  tired  of  me — of  any  one. 
I  mean  she  thinks  you'd  be  like  your 
father." 

"Well,  what's  she  got  against  father?" 

"I  suppose  she  thinks  he  hasn't  made 
your  mother  very  happy." 

Dane's  laugh  was  short  and  scornful. 
He  had  never  thought  of  his  mother  as 
unhappy. 

"Well,  doesn't  it  occur  to  them  that 
you're  a  very  different  type  of  woman 
from  mother?" 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"Why,  every  way.  I  mean  you're  not 
the  kind  of  woman  a  man  gets  tired  of. 


28  A  THING  APART 

You're  honest  and  sincere  and — and  real. 
Mother's  pretty  nearly  the  reverse." 

"Do  you  really  think  so,  Dane?"  Ju- 
dith's voice  had  tightened  curiously. 

"I  know  it.  I  live  with  'em.  You 
don't  like  dad,  do  you?"  he  asked  resent- 
fully. 

"Y-es,"  said  Judith  in  her  slow 
thoughtful  way,  "I  can't  help  but  like 
him,  he 's  so  clever  and  handsome  and  en- 
tertaining. But  I  don't  really  respect 
him.  I  guess  I'm  pretty  old-fashioned," 
she  finished  lamely,  "but  I  think  it's 
right  for  a  man  to  be  as  honorable  about 
marriage  as  he  expects  his  wife  to  be." 

Dane  laughed  again,  the  careless,  all- 
scorning  laugh  of  youth. 

"Why,  sure.  It  isn't  a  question  of 
honor.  Dad'd  be  tickled  to  death  if 
mother 'd  have  a  little  affair  and  get  over 
her  deadly  seriousness." 

The  girl's  eyes  widened. 

"Your  mother  could  have  had  lots  of 


LOVE  AND  REVELATIONS  29 

affairs :  Billy's  Uncle  Keith  has  loved  her 
all  his  life — everybody  knows  it." 

' « What?  Keith  Newland?  Loved  her? 
You're  crazy." 

"I  am  not.  But  your  mother  would 
never  stoop  from  anything  less  fine  than 
friendship.  And — and  it's  the  fineness 
of  your  mother  in  you  that  makes  me  love 
you." 

Her  serious,  troubled  young  voice 
reached  for  an  answering  mood  in  Dane, 
and  found  it.  He  put  his  hand  over  hers 
as  it  lay  between  them  in  the  sand  and 
spoke  earnestly: 

"I  wouldn't  discuss  mother  with  any 
one  but  you,  Judith.  I  know  she's  fine 
about  a  lot  of  things — of  course  she  is. 
You're  so  different  from  her  that  you 
can't  understand  what  I  mean.  It  isn't 
as  if  dad  gives  a  darn  for  any  of  these 
women  he  plays  around  with;  mother 
knows  it  perfectly  well.  But  all  her  fool 
notions  and  affectations  are  enough  to  get 


30  A  THING  APART 

on  any  man's  nerves.  She  doesn't  try  to 
please  father;  she  tries  to  make  him 
pleased  with  her." 

Judith  listened  with  puzzled  eyes. 

"I  know  she  does  seem  a  little  affected 
sometimes,"  she  admitted  unwillingly, 
"but  Aunt  Ellen  says  she  takes  up  all 
these  fads  because  she's  got  to  keep  inter- 
ested in  something  or  lose  her  courage.  I 
heard  Uncle  Tom  say  once  she  was  the 
bravest  woman  he  ever  knew.  And,  any- 
how, I  wish  you'd  be  a  little  sweeter  and 
nicer  to  her,  Dane." 

He  flushed  and  gave  a  twisted  nervous 
grin. 

"I — I  will,  Judith.  You  know  all  the 
time  I  was  in  France  she  wrote  me  a  let- 
ter every  day,  corking  letters,  too.  They 
didn't  seem  a  bit  like  her.  I  used  to  think 
she  must  have  changed  or  something,  but 
when  I  got  back  she  was  just  the  same. 
But  you  know,  I've  felt  different  toward 
her  somehow  since  I've  been  so  crazy 


LOVE  AND  REVELATIONS  31 

about  you. ' '  He  wanted  .to  say l  '  since  I  've 
loved  you"  but  the  tenderer  words  would 
not  come.  She  smiled  at  him  a  little  wist- 
fully and  he  lost  his  self -consciousness. 

"Oh,  Judith,  do  you  love  me1?'7 

"Of  course,"  said  Judith  simply,  and 
offered  him  her  sweet  warm  lips.  Their 
kiss  left  them  strangely  thrilled. 

"Why,  good  lord,  Judith,"  Dane 
choked,  holding  her  shoulders  and  gazing 
into  her  wet  eyes,  "I — I  never  felt  so  sad 
in  my  life;  what's  the  matter  with  us?" 

Judith  laughed. 

"I  don't  know;  but  it's  a  dreadfully 
nice  sadness,  isn't  it?" 

1  i  Well,  rather. ' '  The  queer  tension  that 
held  him  suddenly  gave  way  and  he  swept 
her  into  an  eager  embrace  that  brought 
all  the  wild  exultation  of  which  he  had 
dreamed.  He  held  her  close,  lost  in  the 
joy  of  her  answering  lips.  Realizing  the 
abandon  of  their  embrace  at  almost  the 
same  instant,  they  scrambled  awkwardly 


32  A  THING  APART 

to  their  feet,  not  looking  at  each  other. 
Judith  brushed  the  sand  from  her  bathing 
suit  and  tried  to  pull  a  rubber  cap  over  the 
tangled  glory  of  her  hair.  Dane  watched 
her.  She  was  his — that  beautiful  clean- 
souled  girl. 

"I  know  I  look  perfectly  disgraceful," 
Judith  said,  attempting  a  careless  self- 
possession. 

"Why,  you  do  not,"  he  contradicted 
with  such  solemnity  that  they  both 
laughed  aloud,  boisterously. 

As  they  stood  there,  exquisitely  happj7- 
and  glowing  with  youth,  Dane 's  father  and 
Mrs.  Sangster  came  suddenly  into  view 
from  behind  the  big  rocks  where  the  boats 
were  fastened.  They  were  walking  to- 
ward the  trees  that  came  down  close  to 
the  sandy  lake  shore.  The  man  was  tall, 
but  the  golden  head  of  the  woman  beside 
him  was  on  a  level  with  his  own.  Dane 
and  Judith  heard  faintly  a  burst  of  her 
clear  pretty  laughter,  and  just  as  they 


LOVE  AND  REVELATIONS  33 

passed  into  the  shadow  of  the  trees,  the 
man  put  his  arm  about  her  and  kissed  her. 

Dane  turned  quickly  to  see  if  Judith 
had  seen.  She  had.  Her  face  was 
crimson. 

"Dad  is  a  bit  careless,"  he  tried  to  say 
in  a  casual  way. 

"/  think  that's  dishonorable  and  con- 
temptible." 

Her  anger  bewildered  him  and  he  said 
flatly: 

"He's  —  he's  my  dad,  you  know, 
Judith." 

"Yes;  and  you  ignore  all  honor  in  your 
mother,  and  see  no  dishonor  in  him,"  she 
spoke  the  words  in  a  high  unnatural  voice. 
"I,  I  want  you  to  go  on  and  leave  me.  I 
want  to  stay  here.  Oh,  it  makes  me  sick 
of  you." 

He  looked  at  her  sullenly,  and  then 
walked  swiftly  away.  The  many  emotions 
of  the  short  afternoon  had  bent  his  brain 
past  reasoning.  He  knew  dimly  that  he 


34  A  THING  APART 

wanted  to  go  back  to  Judith,  but  his  feet 
carried  him  to  the  sunny  lawn,  where  his 
mother  sat,  painting  a  picture  of  serenity. 


CHAPTER  II 

DISTORTED  VALUES 

"  MOTHER  1  why  in  the  devil  d'  you  have 
that  Sangster  woman  here?"  he  burst  out 
savagely.  "I  should  think  you'd  have  a 
little  pride  about — about  things." 

Her  shoulders  drew  up  sharply,  almost 
touching  the  brim  of  her  big  hat,  but  she 
turned  slowly  from  her  painting  and 
stared  quietly  up  at  her  furious  son,  mak- 
ing a  whimsical  moue  of  her  thin 
tremulous  lips.  Then  she  laughed  lightly, 
the  unmirthful  laugh  so  peculiarly  her 
own. 

"My  de-ar!  why  do  you  so  suddenly 
disapprove  of  Nathalie?" 

"Na&kdtte/'  he  mocked  scathingly, 
"Good  lord,  you  make  me  sick;  can't  you 

35 


36  A  THING  APART 

at  least  have  enough — enough  dignity  to 
call  her  Mrs.  Sangster?" 

"Your  father  calls  her  Nathalie." 
"What  if  he  does?    You  don't  need  to/' 
"What's  happened,  Dane?"  she  asked 
in  a  still  pinched  voice,  putting  her  brush 
carefully  in  place. 

He  flung  himself  down  on  the  grass  and 
scowled  up  at  her ;  the  big  floppy  hat  and 
her  straying  strands  of  hair  added  them- 
selves maddeningly  to  his  irritation. 

"Oh,  nothing,  nothing  at  all:  except  it's 
a  little  disgusting  to  run  across  dad  kiss- 
ing her,  every  corner  you  turn." 

Her  breath  escaped  sharply  in  a  little 
shattered  burst  of  laughter. 

"Why  do  you  complain  to  me,  Dane?" 

' l  Well,  you  asked  her  here,  didn  't  you  ? ' ' 

She  did  not  answer  for  an  instant.  Then 

she  spoke  lightly  as  if  amused   at  his 

youthful  anger.    "Your  father  probably 

kisses    several    hundred    pretty    women 

every  year,  Dane;  it's  a  habit  with  him — 


DISTORTED  VALUES  37 

as  you  must  have  known  for  some  little 
time." 

"I  suppose  you  think  that's  the  extent 
of  the  habit,"  he  said  nastily,  ashamed  of 
the  words  even  as  he  spoke  them. 

Mrs.  Elridge's  expression  did  not 
change  except  for  a  still  further  repres- 
sion of  feeling,  like  the  drying  of  wet  clay. 

"Your  father  would,  perhaps,  prefer 
you  to  discuss  the  matter  with  him/' 
Picking  up  her  brush,  she  turned  back  to 
the  easel.  Dane  was  conscious,  through 
his  anger,  of  a  faint  thrill  of  admiration ; 
he  recalled  what  Judith  had  said  about 
her  courage. 

"You — you  see,  Judith  was  with  me 
when  we  saw  them,"  he  blurted  out  boy- 
ishly. It  was  the  nearest  thing  to  an 
apology  that  he  could  discipline  himself 
into  uttering. 

"Yes?"  murmured  his  mother  indif- 
ferently. 

It  did  not  occur  to  Dane  that  perhaps 


38  A  THING  APART 

her  own  emotions  might  be  excluding  all 
other  thoughts  just  then ;  he  only  realized 
a  deeper  anger  because  she  did  not  grasp 
all  the  things  he  had  not  said. 

"Yes,"  he  snapped,  "that's  what  I  said. 
Oh,  for  lord's  sake,  can't  you  stop  disfig- 
uring that  canvas?  Gr-een  sky!" 

His  mother  stood  up,  smoothed  down 
her  crumpled  apron  and  put  her  brush  on 
the  stool. 

"It  isn't  sky,  dear,"  she  said  patiently. 
"It's  an  expression  of  growth — universal 
growth.  You  don't  seem  to  have  hold  of 
yourself  very  well  this  afternoon.  Can — 
can  I  help  you  about  something?" 

"No." 

She  hesitated,  looking  down  at  him  in 
uncomfortable  indecision.  He  knew  that 
she  was  afraid  of  him — afraid  of  her 
helplessness  to  combat  his  hard  young 
cynicism  and  scorn.  His  arrogance  had 
fed  on  the  realization  of  that  timidity 
since  his  small  boyhood. 


DISTORTED  VALUES  39 

"Why,  then,  am  I  having  this  unusual 
pleasure?"  she  asked,  weakly  ironicaL 

"I  told  you  why.  I  don't  see  any  rea- 
son for  that  woman  being  here.  Let  dad 
go  to  see  her  if  he  wants  to:  what's  the 
sense  in  dragging  her  down  here  with  de- 
cent people?  You  don't  fool  anybody." 
There  was  a  long  pause ;  something  in  his 
mother's  face,  not  pain,  but  soul-deep  be- 
wilderment and  a  queer  aloofness  sickened 
him  heartily  of  himself,  but  his  mood  was 
beyond  power  of  control. 

"Then  it  isn't  the — the  kissing,  but  the 
location  that  you  think  is  wrong;  is  that 
it,  Dane?" 

The  question  startled  him  somewhat, 
and  brought  perplexing  thoughts  of  Jud- 
ith and  her  troubled  voice  as  she  had  put 
forth  her  young  philosophies  of  life. 

"Well,  do  you  think  it's  a  very  good 
taste?"  he  muttered  lamely. 

"Mrs.  Sangster  has  been  accepted  for 
a  number  of  years  by  a  good  many  people 


40  A  THING  APAET 

we  know.  I  think  the  question  of  good 
taste  enters  into  the  matter  quite  in  ad- 
vance of  my  asking  her  here.  But  I 
learned  long  ago,  Dane,  that  I  couldn't  set 
my  standards  up  for  other  people  to  live 
by,  it's — it's  a  very  disillusioning  thing  to 
do,  and  you  don't  grow  yourself,  spirit- 
ually, that  is,  by  trying  to." 

"Gee,  mother,  how  you  do  love  to  say 
words — words — words. ' ' 

"Oh,  Dane,  how  difficult  you  are  going 
to  make  your  life  by  your  intolerance, 
how  very  miserable.  I  only  wish  I  knew 
some  way  to  help  you."  This  was  always 
her  last  weapon  with  him — her  last  effort 
to  keep  the  dignity  of  her  motherhood 
aloof  from  the  touch  of  his  disrespect. 

"Oh,  yes,  same  old  stuff — my  own 
worst  enemy,"  he  scoffed. 

She  stood  there  above  him,  wavering, 
when  suddenly  enlightenment  dawned  in 
her  eyes,  as  if  something  had  come  to  her 
to  interpret  his  mood. 


DISTORTED  VALUES  41 

"Was  Judith  so  very  troubled  at — at 
seeing  them?"  she  asked. 

The  simple  directness  of  the  question 
surprised  him,  so  that  he  divulged  more 
of  his  secret  than  he  had  meant  to. 

"Well,  naturally  she  wasn't  crazy 
about  it;  of  course  she  thinks  I'll  be  just 
like  him." 

' '  What !  Why  should  it  concern  Judith 
if  you  are?" 

"Why  do  you  suppose?"  he  muttered 
sullenly,  painfully  red. 

His  mother's  face,  as  she  stared  down 
at  him,  became  so  utterly  distressed  and 
aghast  that  he  felt  a  certain  baffled 
apprehension. 

"W-ell,  is  it  so  darned  incredible?"  he 
jerked  out,  turning  over  on  his  face  and 
burrowing  his  head  into  his  crossed  arms. 
The  keen  consciousness  of  his  lack  of 
manliness  served  but  further  to  increase 
his  childish  unreasonable  fury.  "Now 
shell  say  something  that'll  make  me  mad- 


42  A  THING  APART 

der  than  ever,"  he  thought  fiercely,  but 
his  mother's  slow-coming  words  were  not 
even  addressed  to  him. 

4 'Judith,  little  Judith,"  she  murmured 
in  a  queer  toneless  voice.  "Oh,  Ellen  must 
take  here  home  now — to-day."  Her  voice 
took  on  a  sharp  def initeness ;  "Oh,  Dane, 
how  could  you  do  such  a  thing :  you  know 
Billy  and  Judith  love  each  other." 

He  scrambled  to  his  feet  and  con- 
fronted her  blusteringly ;  incoherent  with 
astonishment. 

"Billy  nothing!  Say  what — what  d' 
you  think  we  are — two  idiots? — two 
babies'?  You  must  be  crazy — 'take  her 
home"?  Why  I'm  going  to  marry  her — 
d'  you  hear?  Marry  her!  D'  you  get  it? 
Why,  you'd  think  we  were — you'd  think 
we — "  He  stopped.  He  felt  suddenly 
ridiculous. 

The  timidity  had  left  his  mother's  face, 
uncovering  a  light  that  blinded  him. 

"Yes,"  she  said  in  a  bitter  controlled 


DISTORTED  VALUES  43 

voice,  "I'd  think  you  were  a  twelve-year- 
old  street  urchin.  And  you — you  think 
yourself  worthy  to  marry  splendid  beauti- 
ful Judith;  you,  who've  never  had  an 
unselfish  thought  in  your  life;  you,  who 
can't  control  your  slightest  emotion.  It  is 
a  bitter  thing — a  terrible  thing  to  know 
the  unworthiness  of  your  own  son,  but  I 
do,  I  do." 

She  turned  abruptly  and  walked  swiftly 
from  him.  He  started  to  bound  after  her 
but  stopped,  hesitated,  and  stood  there 
stupidly.  He  lost  all  anger,  all  thoughts 
of  Judith  or  himself,  in  sheer  astonish- 
ment. His  mother's  slight  aproned  figure 
hurrying  toward  the  house,  even  her  ridic- 
ulous hat,  acquired  a  strange  dignity. 
And  he  had  an  actual  physical  sensation 
of  growing  smaller,  of  shriveling  up. 
"While  he  stared  after  her,  trying  to 
achieve  coherent  thought  out  of  his  stupe- 
faction, three  people  came  into  view  from 
behind  the  hedge,  directly  intercepting  his 


44  A  THING  APART 

mother  on  her  swift  way  across  the  lawn. 
They  were  a  tall  man  in  flannels  and  a 
broader-shouldered  youth  in  uniform — 
Keith  Newland  and  his  nephew,  Billy. 
And  Judith  was  with  them. 

The  older  man  put  out  both  hands  to 
Mrs.  Elridge;  but  Billy  bent  down,  took 
off  her  ha^,  and  kissed  her.  That  was  like 
Billy  Newland;  he  could  kiss  anything — 
grandmothers,  babies,  anybody.  Dane  had 
always  been  slightly  contemptuous  of  the 
placid  ordinary  Billy,  but  he  saw  him 
suddenly  in  a  new  role.  Billy  had  been 
made  a  major ;  he,  Dane,  had  remained  a 
"shavetail,"  although  they  were  practi- 
cally of  an  age.  Efficiency  must  have 
backed  up  such  rapid  promotion,  and, — 
" — you  know  Billy  and  Judith  love  each 
other,"  numbed  his  brain  with  its  reiter- 
ation. He  hadn't  known  it — he  hadn't 
dreamed  of  such  a  thing. 

But  there  they  were,  together.  Billy 
must  have  searched  her  out  the  second  he 


DISTORTED  VALUES  45 

had  arrived  on  the  place,  for  Judith  was 
still  in  her  bathing  suit,  a  beach  coat 
thrown  across  her  shoulders.  Distorted 
values  assaulted  him.  It  seemed  incred- 
ible, horrible,  that  Judith,  whom  he  had 
held  in  his  arms  less  than  an  hour  before, 
was  now  laughing  and  talking  with  an- 
other man. 

Dane's  feet  grew  to  the  ground.  Young 
Newland  waved  his  cap  at  him  and 
shouted  " Hello,  old  chap,"  but  Dane 
found  no  voice.  He  gave  a  limp  answer- 
ing wave  and  managed  to  take  a  few  un- 
determined steps  in  their  direction,  but  a 
miserable  choking  in  his  throat  and  a  hot 
mist  before  his  eyes  entirely  devastated 
his  courage.  He  yanked  his  voice  out  of  a 
tight  throat  and  called: 
"Hey!  Got  a  date;  see  you  later." 
And,  turning,  he  ran  toward  the  lake 
again.  His  father  and  Nathalie  Sangster 
were  just  emerging  from  their  walk  in 


46  A  THING  APART 

the  maple  grove  and  they  called  to  him, 
but  he  ran  on  unanswering. 

"I'm  the  original  jackass,"  he  scourged 
himself  savagely,  "what  in  the  devil 
makes  me  act  like  this?" 


CHAPTER  III 

A  NEW  UNIVERSE 

AT  dinner  everything  was  just  as  usual, 
the  round  table  enlarged  to  its  full  capac- 
ity of  guests.  There  were  always  guests  at 
the  Elridges'.  The  times  when  the  fam- 
ily, the  three  of  them,  were  alone  in  either 
of  their  big  houses,  were  bleak  and  un- 
comfortable occasions. 

Dane  was  never  talkative,  so  that  to- 
night his  unbroken  silence  passed  unno- 
ticed in  the  laughter  and  chatter  of  the 
others.  The  facts  of  the  afternoon  dug 
into  his  mind,  insisting  on  their  reality. 
"I  did  propose  to  her, — I  did  kiss  her, — I 
did  act  like  a  calf,  a  fool,  a  baby." 

He  glanced  stealthily  at  his  mother 
when  he  was  sure  her  attention  was  else- 
47 


48  A  THING  APART 

where.  She  sat  between  Keith  Newland 
and  Mr.  Lawson,  Judith's  uncle,  chatting 
gaily.  She  seemed  different,  somehow, 
among  these  people  most  of  whom  hap- 
pened to  be  her  friends  more  particularly 
than  his  father's. 

Now  that  he  thought  of  it,  Dane  re- 
membered that  she  always  seemed  to  take 
on  an  ease  of  manner — a  sort  of  conse- 
quence, when  Newland  came  down  with  his 
quiet  deference  toward  her,  and  quiet  ad- 
miration. Newland  had  been  an  occasional 
guest  at  their  home  ever  since  Dane  could 
remember.  Dane  had  never  liked  him 
especially,  unconsciously  damning  him 
because  of  his  father's  light  ridicule. 
Moreover,  he  played  a  painful  game  of 
tennis,  unforgivable  golf,  and  was  short- 
sighted,— amusingly  hesitant  without  his 
glasses.  But  his  financial  position  was 
quite  beyond  ridicule,  as  was  his  extremely 
forceful  though  unobtrusive  direction  of 
certain  political  affairs. 


A  NEW  UNIVERSE  49 

Dane  fell  to  wondering  if  Newland 
could  really  love  his  mother,  as  Judith  had 
said.  He  wondered  what  they  talked  about 
when  they  were  alone  together — if  New- 
land  had  ever  kissed  her ;  the  thought  was 
amusing  but  became  quickly  unpleasant 
because  it  reminded  him  of  Judith  and 
her  rude  dismissal  of  him  that  afternoon. 
He  dropped  into  a  sullen  study  of  his 
mother.  One  was  always  conscious  of  the 
way  Mrs.  Elridge  attempted  to  look,  as 
much  as  of  her  actual  appearance.  To- 
night, her  green  gown  of  oriental  fashion, 
goemetrically  patterned  with  Batik  de- 
signs, screamed  its  betrayal  of  her  desire 
to  be  " artistically  interesting"  in  contrast 
with  the  radiant  wholly-female  Mrs. 
Sangster  who  wore  a  low-cut  trailing 
mystery  of  delicate  rose  chiffon. 

"Lord,  no  wonder  dad's  gone  on  her," 
Dane  thought,  turning  his  attention  to  the 
lovely  woman  with  her  exquisite  skin  and 
her  gold  hair  that  glistened  even  in  the 


50  A  THING  APART 

dull  light  of  the  candles.  Dane  had  never 
noticed  her  extraordinary  allure  before; 
he  had  never  thought  about  her  at  all 
except  that  she  was  another  of  his 
father's  "little  affairs" — a  beautiful 
woman  and  a  good  sport  whom  naturally 
a  man  might  admire.  But  now,  attuned 
to  contrast,  he  noticed  that  Judith's  face 
was  unpleasantly  sunburned,  that  his 
mother  looked  an  utter  freak,  that  the 
other  women  seemed  extremely  ordinary 
— it  was  like  comparing  fat  little  garden 
flowers  with  an  orchid.  As  he  itemized 
the  comparison,  Mrs.  Sangster's  cool 
deep  eyes  lifted  several  times  and  met  his 
gaze.  Once  she  smiled.  And  Dane  was 
startled  at  the  thrill  that  raced  over  his 
body.  His  emotions,  tempest-whirled  by 
his  love  for  Judith,  were  like  tingling 
taut  wires.  He  did  not  look  at  Mrs.  Sang- 
ster  again,  thinking  to  himself: 

"Judith's  jealous  of  her,  of  course ;  any 
woman 'd  be  jealous  of  her." 


A  NEW  UNIVERSE  51 

All  through  dinner,  Judith  did  not 
once  look  at  him.  He  was  glad  of  it.  By 
some  magic,  he  seemed  a  little  less  help- 
less in  his  love  for  her ;  he  was  able  more 
and  more  to  regard  her  with  a  detached 
interest.  He  felt  no  resentment  because 
of  the  whole-hearted  flattering  attention 
she  bestowed  on  Billy,  who  talked  on  and 
on  with  disgusting  abandon  about  his  war 
experiences.  Young  Newland  had  only 
just  returned  from  France  and  was  not 
yet  discharged ;  the  admiration  and  inter- 
est of  the  cordial  circle  about  him  were 
plainly  pleasing  to  him,  and  his  eyes 
openly  drank  pleasure  from  Judith's 
fresh  glowing  face.  Dane's  intolerance 
and  lack  of  belief  returned  to  him.  Per- 
haps those  two  did  love  each  other,  they 
certainly  displayed  every  sign  of  so  do- 
ing. And  Judith,  like  all  the  rest  of  them, 
was  a  flirt.  By  the  end  of  dinner,  he  felt 
utterly  indifferent  to  her. 

But  when  they  went  into  the  drawing- 


52  A  THING  APART 

room  Judith  stood  in  the  doorway,  and  as 
they  passed,  his  hand  brushed  against 
hers.  He  stopped.  She  looked  straight 
into  his  eyes  and  his  indifference  dropped 
from  him  like  loosened  armor. 

"Are  you  still  'sick  of  me,'  "  he  mut- 
tered. 

"No;  I'm  sorry  I  was  horrid.  I  lore 
you  lots,"  she  whispered,  smiling. 

He  felt  the  blood  burn  into  his  face  at 
her  naive  frankness.  He  gulped,  feeling 
distressingly  young. 

"Why  were  you  hating  me  all  through 
dinner1?"  she  accused  him. 

Such  perception  seemed  no  less  than 
miraculous. 

"How  do  you  know  I  was?  You  never 
looked  at  me." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  did;  when  you  were  staring 
so  hard  at  Mrs.  Sangster." 

But  Dane  had  no  reason  for  embarrass- 
ment, here. 

"You  know,  Judith,  I  never  even  gave 


A  NEW  UNIVERSE  S3 

her  a  thought  till  you  got  me  curious  this 
afternoon.  She  is  a  peach  to  look  at, 
isn't  she?" 

Judith's  manner  cooled.  It  amused 
him,  and  gave  him  a  sense  of  mastery,  of 
superior  age  and  experience.  Then  she 
laughed. 

"She  is  beautiful,"  she  admitted,  "but 
I  hate  her,  oh,  I  just  detest  her,  don't 
you?" 

"Why,  good  lord,  no,"  he  said  honestly. 
"What's  the  matter  with  her?  She's 
never  done  anything  to  me." 

Again  the  same  startled,  doubting  ex- 
pression of  that  afternoon  disturbed  the 
candor  of  Judith's  wide  brown  eyes. 

"Let's  not  talk  about  her,"  she  said 
hastily.  "Come  on;  Billy  promised  me 
he'd  sing  some  of  the  German  parodies 
his  men  made  up  while  they  were  in 
Coblenz." 

"Darn  Billy's  songs!    I  want  to  talk  to 


54  A  THING  APART 

you.  Let's  get  out  of  this.  Put  on  a 
scarf;  it's  a  peach  of  a  night." 

"What  do  you  want  to  talk  about?"  she 
demurred,  hesitating.  "Won't  they  think 
it's  queer  for  us  to  run  off  by  ourselves?" 

He  leaned  closer  to  her,  suddenly  en- 
dowed with  daring  words,  because  he  saw 
that  even  she  was  still  half  fearful  of  their 
love. 

"They  won't  think  it's  as  queer  as  if  I 
begin  kissing  you  right  here." 

Her  cheeks  colored  but  her  eyes  ac- 
cepted his  challenge,  and  they  slipped 
away  together  into  the  dusky  night,  cooled 
with  a  breeze  that  carried  the  fragrance 
of  heliotrope  and  sweet  brier  roses.  He 
breathed  it  in  deeply. 

"Gosh,  Judith,  I  feel  like  I've  been 
turned  loose  in  a  new  universe — another 
'astral  plane'  that  mother  talks  about.  You 
know,  I  never  even  noticed  what  a  dog- 
gone nice  smell  those  brier  roses  have." 

A  little  awkwardly  he  took  her  in  his 


A  NEW  UNIVERSE  55 

arms,  conscious  even  above  the  thrilling 
pleasure  that  her  body  gave  him,  of  a  great 
good  difference  between  the  white  desire 
of  his  love  and  other  passions  he  had 
known,  carelessly. 

"We  can  be  married  Sunday  after- 
noon," he  said  breathlessly,  his  lips  still 
very  near  to  hers. 

Judith  broke  into  nervous,  girlish 
laughter. 

"Married?  Why— why,  Dane!  Why, 
you  funny  old  thing.  Of  course  we  can't 
be  married  for  a  year  or  two.  Whatever 
are  you  thinking  about?" 

"For  a  year  or  two?"  he  repeated 
stupidly.  His  heart  sickened  in  its  beat- 
ing. She  did  not  want  him  as  he  wanted 
her.  He  felt  as  helpless  as  he  had  seen 
his  mother  look  before  some  careless  unin- 
tended hurt  from  his  father. 

"Why,  you  wouldn't  want  to  marry  be- 
fore you've  at  least  started  out  for  your- 
self, would  you?"  he  heard  Judith  saying 


56  A  THING  APART 

in  a  puzzled  way.  "  Would  you  want  me 
drawing  on  your  father's  bank-account 
for  my  gowns  and,  and  the  groceries,  and 
— and  everything  ?" 

Money!  Was  she  afraid  there  wasn't 
money  ? 

"You  needn't  worry  about  the  money 
part  of  it;  there's  plenty.  I  didn't  think 
you'd  Be  interested  in  that  end  of  it,  or 
I'd  have  explained  to  you  sooner.  Grand- 
mother Stillman's  estate  came  to  me  when 
I  was  twenty-one." 

Judith  shook  his  arm  rebukingly. 

"Oh,  aren't  you  the  nasty  thing?  You 
know  perfectly  well  I'd  have  loved  you  if 
you'd  been  the  ice  man.  But  you've  never 
even  made  as  much  money  as  an  ice  man. 
Ill  wager  I've  earned  more  money  than 
you  have." 

"No  doubt;  soliciting  charity  subscrip- 
tions." 

"I  earned  two  hundred  and  fifty  dol- 
lars a  month  all  during  the  war." 


A  NEW  UNIVEESE  57 

"So  that's  the  way  you  girls  over  here 
did  war  work — for  pay  f"  He  was  incred- 
ulous. 

"I  certainly  did,  and  I  certainly  earned 
it.  I  wrote  propaganda  articles  every  day 
for  seven  hours  and  typed  them  myself. 
I  gave  the  money  to  the  Red  Cross  again, 
but  just  the  same  /  earned  it." 

"I  don't  quite  get  the  drift  of  your  ar- 
gument," he  said  sullenly.  "I'll  admit 
a  shavetail  didn't  get  two  hundred  and 
fifty  a  month,  but  I've  an  idea  most  of  us 
earned  it,  and  we  didn't  exactly  go  in  for 
a  financial  adventure." 

"Oh,  Dane,"  she  protested  in  a  dis- 
tressed voice,  "sometimes  you  —  you 
actually  make  me  want  to  spank  you.  As 
if  I  wanted  you  to  stay  at  home  and  make 
money  instead  of  enlisting.  But  I  do 
want  you  to— to  'make  good'  before  we're 
married — you  owe  it  to  yourself,  the  sat- 
isfaction of  it.  Why,  dear,  a  year  or  two 
will  just  fly  by—" 


58  A  THING  APART 

She  stopped ;  in  the  dim  light  his  hand- 
some young  face  showed  the  uncontrol- 
lable rage  of  a  youngster.  He  grasped  her 
shoulders  and  shook  her. 

"Yes,  yes,  they  will !  'Fly  by'  out  there 
on  the  desert  in  Wyoming — oh,  yes !  Why 
don't  you  say  you  don't  want  to  go  out 
there  to  live!  You  won't  have  to;  I'll  go 
by  myself,  I  expected  to.  But  you've  got 
to  marry  me!  you've  got  to,  I  tell  you 
or  I'll— I'll—  " 

Judith  jerked  away  from  his  rough  hold 
of  her. 

"Baby,"  she  taunted,  "you  great  big 
baby;  what  will  you  do?  Shake  me  and 
pinch  me  and  pull  my  hair,  it  seems. 
Why,  I  ought  to  carry  a  revolver  to  pro- 
tect myself." 

His  anger  crumpled  to  shame  before  the 
scorn  in  her  eyes,  and  she  was  laughing! 
Again  he  felt  overpowered  with  the  help- 
lessness he  had  so  often  seen  in  his  moth- 
er's face,  the  helplessness  of  striv- 


A  NEW  UNIVERSE  59 

ing  to  exert  the  power  or"  a  greater  love 
over  a  lesser  one.  He  stared  at  Judith's 
derisive  but  unangered  face  for  a  blank 
instant,  and  then  threw  his  arms  about 
her  and  put  his  face  down  against  her  cool 
bared  shoulder. 

"Oh,  Judith — please,  Judith;  you  must 
love  me,  Judith ;  you  must.  If  you'd  only 
help  me,  Judith,  I'd  be  different — I  know 
I  would."  He  went  on  murmuring  inco- 
herent things  while  she  held  him  close  to 
her  and  put  her  head  down  against  his. 

"Why,  Dane,  why,  Dane,  I  love  you," 
she  whispered.  She  had  been  a  little 
frightened  by  his  flights  of  emotion.  "I 
want  to  help  you  more  than  anything  else 
in  the  world.  What  do  you  mean  by 
you'll  'be  different'  if  I  help  you?" 

It  was  hard  to  explain,  scarcely  know- 
ing himself. 

"You  know  what  I  mean,  Judith;  you 
know  how  I  am:  I  don't  do  the  things  I 
really  want  to,  I  can't  seem  to  believe  in 


60  A  THING  APART 

anything;  you  said  this  afternoon  you 
knew  how  it  was." 

"Yes,"  whispered  Judith,  "oh,  yes." 

But  he  knew  that  she  did  not  under- 
stand, and  he  fell  back  weakly  to  the 
thing  he  feared — her  lesser  love  than  his. 

"You  don't  love  me,  Judith,  the  way  I 
do  you;  and  it  scares  me,  oh,  I  can't  tell 
you." 

Judith  did  not  answer.  He  had  hoped 
she  would  quickly  deny  it ;  he  prayed  that 
she  would,  but  she  only  said : 

"Dane,  I  must  be  the  first  girl  you've 
ever  loved;  am  I?" 

Her  puzzled  question  filled  him  with 
helpless  resentment. 

"Yes." 

"Oh,  my  dearest,"  she  breathed  softly 
and  lifted  his  head  and  brought  his  lips 
to  hers.  He  rebounded  from  hell  to 
heaven.  It  was  dizzying. 

"Why— why,  what  of  it?"  he  stam- 
mered. "What  d'  you  mean?  I've  played 


A  NEW  UNIVERSE  61 

around  with  some  girls,  of  course.  Why? 
Are  you  so  experienced?" 

"I  don't  know  that  you'd  call  it  ' ex- 
perienced,' her  manner  was  quickly 
cooler.  "You  needn't  mention  the  ' girls 
you've  played  around  with'  to  me,  Dane. 
I  don't  want  to  know  anything  about 
them — even  to  think  of  them.  I  just — 
just  thought  I  was  the  first  girl  you've 
really  loved  because  other  men  who've 
made  love  to  me  were — were  different; 
sort  of  more — oh,  I  can't  explain  it." 

She  laughed,  a  little  self-consciously. 
His  mind  went  groping  from  the  pleasure 
of  her  lips  into  tangled  paths  of  doubt 
again. 

"Judith,  tell  me;  has  Bill  Newland — I 
mean,  is  he  crazy  about  you?" 

"We  like  each  other,"  she  evaded. 

Little  pricks  of  heat  twinkled  down  his 
back  but  by  a  severe  effort  he  spoke 
quietly. 

"Tell  me,  Judith." 


62  A  THING  APART 

"Tell  you  what?  Isn't  it  enough  to 
know  we  love  each  other?" 

"But  I  don't  know  that  you  love  me," 
he  objected  dully.  "One  minute  I  think 
you  do,  and  the  next  minute  I'm  sure  you 
don't — not  the  way  I  do.  I've  got  to 
marry  you,  have  you,  belong  to  you,  or  get 
out  altogether,  that's  all  there  is  to  it." 

She  looked  at  him  searchingly.  Then 
she  said  hesitatingly,  and  very  low: 

"If — if  I  were  only  sure  about  us, 
about  us  after  while  I  mean,  I'd — why, 
Dane,  if  I  felt  sure  your  love  is — is  your 
mother's  kind  of  love,  I  think  I'd  marry 
you  to-morrow!" 

"Truly,  Judith,"  he  said  hoarsely. 

' '  Why,  yes,  I  want  to  marry  you.  What 
— what  do  you  suppose?" 

The  comforting  ecstasy  of  her  words 
numbed  him. 

"Oh,  can't  you  believe  me,  Judith?  I 
should  think  you'd  feel  it,  somehow. 


A  NEW  UNIVERSE  63 

You'll  never  possibly  be  any  less.  Can't 
you  realize  it?" 

"I  almost  can,"  she  said  slowly,  like  a 
child  unwillingly  tempted. 

"Then  we  shall  be  married  to-morrow," 
he  said  instantly.  "I  thought  that  mak- 
ing good  stuff  was  all  camouflage.  I 
know  I'll  make  good,  and  so  do  you." 

"Oh,  but — but,"  she  hesitated,  thinking 
as  she  talked,  "let  me  have  just  this  week, 
Dane,  without  saying  a  word  to  any  one. 
— I  don't  want  Aunt  Ellen  to  dream  of 
such  a  thing;  a  week  just  to  decide  for 
myself — and  then,  if  you  don't  lose  your 
temper  again  and  beat  me,  I — I  will." 

After  this  they  had  no  need  for  words 
for  a  long  time.  But  her  evasion  about 
Billy  bothered  him.  Finally  he  said: 

"Mother  told  me  this  afternoon  that 
you  and  Billy  had  been  in  love  for  a  long 
time." 

"Oh,  Dane,  why  are  you  so  silly?  I 
like  him — I  love  you.  Now  listen,"  she 


64  A  THING  APART 

whispered  softly,  their  lips  touching,  "I 
love  you,  I  love  you,  I  love  you.  Remem- 
ber it." 

He  was  unwillingly  soothed,  her  lips 
were  so  heavenly  sweet. 

"But,  sweetheart,  there's  no  good  pre- 
tending, is  there?  I'd  just  keep  on  think- 
ing about  the  darn  thing.  Just  tell  me 
this:  has — has  he  ever  kissed  you?"  he 
blurted  the  words  out  in  one  breath. 

"Yes,  Dane,  quite  often." 

"Why — why,  my  God,  Judith;  kissed 
you?" 

Judith  was  plainly  startled  at  the 
aghast  bewilderment  in  his  voice.  He  sat 
back,  staring  at  her  with  miserable,  un- 
comprehending eyes;  his  very  body  felt 
bruised. 

"Well,  Dane !  you  act  like  a  movie  hero ; 
you're  funny.  Have  you  never  kissed 
any  one?" 

"Yes.  And  now  that  I  love  you,  I'm 
ashamed — sick,  even  to  think  about  it." 


A  NEW  UNIVERSE  65 

Judith's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  She  put 
her  arms  around  him  motheringly. 

"Oh,  you  queer,  blessed,  old  thing! 
You've  nothing  to  be  jealous  of  Billy 
about.  We've  known  each  other  all  our 
lives,  and  he's  always  sort  of  thought  he 
owned  me,  and  bossed  me  about.  While 
he  was  in  France  he  decided  he  wanted  to 
marry  me,  and  it's  going  to  be  a  little 
rough  on  him  to  find  out  about  you.  So — 
so  you'll  be  nice  about  it,  won't  you?" 

Her  cheek  was  against  his  and  his  heart 
was  infinitely  calm. 

"Poor  old  devil,"  he  muttered,  pitying 
Billy  profoundly,  "I'll  say  I'll  be  nice  to 
him.  Oh,  Judith,  it's  wonderful  to  have 
some  one  really  to  talk  to.  And  you  al- 
ways will  tell  me  things,  won't  you — and, 
and  help  me?" 

"Always,"  promised  Judith,  her  eyes 
as  solemn  and  undoubting  as  the  stars. 
"I've  really  got  a  feeling,  Dane,  that  we're 
going  to  be  happier  than  most  people  are. " 


66  A  THING  APAET 

"So  have  I,"  he  said  solemnly,  both  of 
them  supremely  unaware  that  this  proph- 
ecy was  born  with  Cupid  when  Love 
began. 

On  their  way  to  the  house  she  asked 
him  what  he  had  told  his  mother  and  what 
she  had  said.  Dane  tingled  with  discom- 
fort, but  he  forced  himself  to  tell  her  the 
whole  unpleasant  truth,  not  in  the  least 
sparing  himself.  He  had  never  before  in 
all  his  life  confessed  that  he  was  ashamed, 
sorry,  for  anything  he  had  done;  it  was 
amazing,  the  weight  that  the  admission 
lifted  from  his  shoulders. 

"You  wouldn't  have  believed  how  she 
ripped  into  me,  Judith,"  he  ended;  "she 
surely  gave  me  to  understand  that  I'm  not 
half  good  enough  for  you." 

"I've  always  loved  your  mother,"  Ju- 
dith said  irrelevantly.  "A  long  time  ago 
when  Aunt  Ellen  and  Uncle  Tom  came  to 
take  care  of  me  after  father  and  mother 
died,  you  used  to  come  out  to  Tarrytown 


A  NEW  UNIVERSE  67 

and  stay  with  us  sometimes.  I  don't  re- 
member you  at  all,  but  your  mother  used 
to  come  up  to  the  nursery  when  I  was 
ready  for  bed  and  sing  me  little  songs. 
She'd  make  them  up  for  me  about  any- 
thing I  liked.  And  I  always  wanted  to 
hear  about  her  little  girl — the  make- 
believe  little  girl  who  never  came  true.  I 
wonder,  dear,  if  I  didn't  begin  loving  you 
then,  without  knowing  it,  so  that  I  could 
come  true  for  her  some  day." 

Dane's  throat  choked.  Life  was  open- 
ing such  undreamed-of  depths  of  sweet- 
ness to  him;  such  great  significances  to 
such  little  things.  And  just  then  it  pre- 
sented another  momentous  nothingness. 

Two  tall  figures  came  out  from  the  big 
house,  the  woman  looking,  from  across  the 
moonlit  lawn,  like  some  fairy  thing  in  her 
floating  scarf  and  draperies.  The  man 
was  bareheaded. 

"Oh,  damn  it  to  hell,"  Dane  cursed  in- 
wardly, the  first  rage  he  had  ever  known 


68  A  THING  APART 

against  his  father  rising  within  him. 
Judith's  hand  tightened  in  his,  but  he 
was  afraid  to  look  at  her ;  the  sympathetic 
confidence,  the  feeling  of  nearness  to  her 
vanished  as  wholly  as  if  it  had  never 
been. 

"Oh,  Judith,"  he  blurted  out,  not 
knowing  at  all  what  he  was  saying,  "why 
do  you  blame  met  I  can't  help  it,  can  I? 
— you  seem  to  think  it's  my  fault ?  "What 
harm  is  there  if  they  go  for  a  walk?" 

"Why,  Dane,  I  didn't  say  anything," 
said  Judith,  wonderingly. 

It  was  true,  she  hadn't.  He  laughed 
with  relief. 

"Well,  you— you  felt  it." 

"N-o,  I  didn't  feel  it  was  your  fault; 
but  it  is  wrong — that,  that  kind  of  friend- 
ship, I  mean,"  she  said,  as  though  silenc- 
ing some  doubt  of  the  matter. 

"I— I  think  I'll  have  a  little  talk  with 
dad,  to-morrow,"  he  said,  very  thought- 
fully. 


CHAPTER  IV 

FATHER  AND  SON 

BUT  by  morning  the  "little  talk"  had 
fortified  itself  behind  gigantic  difficul- 
ties of  approach.  Dane  saw  his  father  at 
breakfast;  but  instead  of  being  elated  at 
the  prospect  of  talking  with  him,  alone, 
he  was  strangely  disquieted.  His  mother 
and  Mrs.  Lawson  had  breakfasted,  and 
the  others  had  not  yet  come  down. 

" Hello,  great  morning  for  a  game,"  his 
father  greeted  him.  "  Peters  finished 
rolling  the  course  yesterday." 

"Yes,"  said  Dane,  "I  don't  think  111 
play,  though." 

His  father  went  on  reading  his  paper, 
guiding  baked  apple  and  cream  into  his 

69 


70  A  THING  APART 

mouth  with  surprising  sureness  of  di- 
rection. 

"Why,  good  lord,  I  can't  say  anything 
|o  him,"  Dane  thought  uncomfortably, 
wondering  at  his  convictions  of  the  night 
before. 

Though  a  cordial  and  untroubled  rela- 
tionship existed  between  him  and  his 
father  it  was  far  from  an  intimate  one. 
Dane  had  never  thought  of  this  before. 
There  had  never  been  any  reason  to.  They 
had  never  needed  each  other.  Not  the 
slightest  tie  of  sacrifice  bound  them  to- 
gether, not  even  a  tendril  of  sympathetic 
confidence.  They  were  simply  two  old 
acquaintances  who  happened  to  live  in  the 
same  house  because  a  certain  little  woman 
with  a  face  like  a  pressed  flower,  had 
made  them  father  and  son. 

Pride  was  the  bond  between  them,  a 
queer  undemonstrative  pride. 

As  a  little  chap,  he  had  received  the 
meagerest  attention  from  his  father. 


FATHER  AND  SON  71 

Occasionally  they  rode  together,  and  Dane 
had  always  been  pleasurably  aware  that 
his  father  was  proud  of  him,  satisfied 
with  him.  And  all  his  life  he  had  been, 
just  as  subtly,  proud  of  his  father — of  his 
distinguished  appearance,  of  his  good 
sportsmanship,  of  his  popularity  and  dry; 
ironical  humor. 

Now,  as  he  sat  at  the  table,  trying  to 
formulate  the  remarks  that  Judith  had 
made  him  feel  were  necessary  to  make,  he 
was  acutely  conscious  of  the  gulf  of  re- 
straint that  separated  them.  His  father 
looked  just  the  same  in  his  fresh  linen,  his 
perfectly  cut  suit,  and  his  huge  tortoise 
rimmed  glasses  a  trifle  aslant,  as  always, 
above  his  long  bridged  nose.  But  with 
the  urge  of  the  reproof  that  lay  waiting 
in  Dane's  mind  to  be  administered,  he 
seemed  different,  strange,  unapproach- 
able. 

Dane  could  no  more  have  said  to  him, 
"Dad,  I  love  Judith  Kingston,  I'm  going 


72  A  THING  APART 

to  marry  her,"  than  he  could  have  taken 
wings  and  flitted  over  the  bowl  of  pansies 
that  centered  the  table.  How  much  less 
could  he  say,  "Dad,  I'm  disgusted  with 
your  philandering;  I  wish  you  hereafter 
to  devote  yourself  entirely  to  mother." 

"Oh,  by  the  way,"  his  father  looked  up 
from  his  paper,  a  deep  perpendicular 
wrinkle  dividing  his  high  forehead  that 
was  so  definitely  outlined  with  thick  gray- 
ing hair,  "by  the  way,  Dane,  if  you  go  in 
town  to-day,  you'd  better  run  into  Allen 
and  Company,  and  speed  up  that  ship- 
ment of  machinery." 

Dane  continued  silently  with  his 
waffles. 

"Oh,  the  devil!  "Why  don't  I  begin 
before  he  gets  started  on  that  confounded 
ranch,"  he  chided  himself,  unavailingly. 
His  love  for  Judith  had  excluded  all  in- 
terest in  the  many  brown-hilled  acres  he 
had  bought  with  his  Grandmother  Still- 
man's  money,  where  he  intended  to  de- 


FATHER  AND  SON  73 

velop  oil  wells,  reservoirs,  mountainsides 
crawling  with  cantaloups,  and  purple  val- 
leys of  alfalfa — where  he  intended  to 
"make  good." 

"Didn't  your  foreman  write  he  needed 
something  else?"  went  on  Mr.  Elridge. 

"Yes,  a  windmill  or  tractor,  or  some- 
thing— I  forget  just  what." 

"Well,  I'd  ascertain  definitely  before 
I  shipped  one  to  him ;  if  he  wants  to  plow 
ground  he  'd  have  the  devil  of  a  time  doing 
it  with  a  windmill.  He  may  have  some  ob- 
ject in  view,  you  know." 

Dane  felt  a  flood  of  resentment  at  his 
father's  meaningful  emphasis.  It  was 
true,  he  hadn't  concerned  himself  lately 
with  the  vast  responsibility  that  he  had 
taken  on  his  shoulders,  but  his  father  had 
chosen  an  unfortunate  moment  for  com- 
menting on  it.  All  of  his  life,  Dane  had 
yielded  to  his  temper  as  naturally  as  a 
young  tree  to  a  tempest,  but  though  his 
father  had  often  seen  him  in  a  rage, 


74  A  THING  APART 

Dane's  life  had  been  curiously  unangered 
by  him. 

"Now  that  you  Ve  sunk  all  you've  got  in 
this  thing,"  Mr.  Elridge  pursued  with 
unusual  insistence,  "it's  time  you  began 
to  realize  that  it  won't  rise  again  by 
itself." 

"Oh,  lord,  I  know  it,  dad.  I  don't  see 
what's  worked  you  up  to  white  heat  all  of 
a  sudden.  You've  been  nagging  at  me  for 
a  week,  now.  I  haven't  expected  to  go  out 
there  until  September  all  along.  What's 
the  big  idea?  The  land  isn't  going  to 
walk  off  the  map,  is  it?  Besides,  it's  my 
money  I  sunk." 

His  father's  shrewd  gray  eyes  sur- 
veyed him  with  ironical  surprise. 

"W-ell,  it's  the  money  your  grand- 
mother gave  you,"  he  said  meaningly. 

"That's  true,  too,"  Dane  flung  out,  now 
wholly  drunk  with  anger,  "just  as  your 
father  gave  you  your  start  and  kept  on 
giving  it  to  you. . .  .I've  been  home  just 


FATHER  AND  SON  75 

eight  weeks  now  and  that  isn't  such  a  hell 
of  a  long  vacation  after  this  last  pretty 
little  year  and  a  half.  I'm  dead  sick  of 
hearing  you  moan  around  about  that 
ranch.  Don't  worry,  I'll  get  along  all 
right — and  I  won't  have  to  have  but  one 
start,  either." 

A  formidable  light,  that  he  had  never 
seen,  flashed  from  his  father's  eyes. 

"Your  confidence  is  reassuring.  But 
you'll  have  to  learn  to  govern  your  tem- 
per before  you'll  make  much  of  a  success. 
You  can't  manage  men  until  you  can  man- 
age yourself.  If  you  could,  you  probably 
wouldn't  have  come  home  a  second  lieu- 
tenant, any  more  than  Bill  Newland  has." 

Dry  heat  parched  Dane's  throat.  He 
had  to  swallow  several  times  before  he 
could  speak. 

* '  That 's — that 's  a  pleasant  thing  to  hear 
from  your  own  dad;  it  shows  that  you're 
just  the  kind  of  a  man  I've  been  finding 
out  you  are  the  last  few  days — a  man  that 


76  A  THING  APART 

thinks  more  of  a  gold  leaf  on  your  shoul~ 
der  than  two  wound  stripes  and  a  Croix 
de  Guerre,. . .  .that's. . .  .that's. ..."  he 
was  mouthing  his  words  helplessly.  "  Why, 
you're  a  regular  Prussion.  .a.  .a" 

Evidently  Mr.  Elridge  was  himself  dis- 
mayed at  the  significance  his  words  had 
carried;  his  high  cheek-bones  reddened 
slightly,  but  he  said  in  an  even  tone : 

"You  are  surely  aware  that  I  spoke 
only  of  your  self-control,  but  it  is  enlight- 
ening to  know  your  views." 

"Well,  then,  I'll  tell  you  some  more  of 
'em,"  Dane  glared  across  the  table,  his 
butter  knife  menacing  the  air.  "I  think 
it's  about  time  you  cut  out  your  flirtations 
with  women — kissing  'em — and,  and  fol- 
lowing 'em  around  like  an  old  fool ;  I  can 
just  tell  you " 

" Shut  up,  you  young  ass!" 

His  father's  lips  did  not  seem  to  open, 
but  Dane  heard  the  low  words  distinctly ; 
their  very  quietness  lending  them  force. 


FATHER  AND  SON  77 

Mr.  Elridge  was  rising  from  his  chair, 
smiling  over  Dane's  head,  and  welcoming 
their  guests  who  were  coming  out  to  the 
breakfast  porch.  Dane  ceased  to  breathe. 
Awkwardly  he  shoved  back  his  chair, 
dropping  his  napkin  and  fumbling  to  pick 
it  up.  His  loud  infuriated  words  seemed 
echoing  back  at  him,  rebounding  from 
the  walls.  Cold  sweat  covered  him.  What 
kind  of  a  mess  had  he  plunged  them  all  in 
now? 

But  not  even  the  faintest  promise  of  a 
mess  ensued.  The  incoming  faces  were 
politely  undisturbed,  and  he  heard  him- 
self saying,  "Good  morning,"  "Hello, 
Bill.  They  had  reveille  earlier  than  this 
in  my  outfit,"  "Good  morning,  Mrs. 
Sangster.  Yes,  indeed,  another  peach  of 
a  day,"  and  continuing  nothings.  He  had 
yet  to  realize  that  in  his  world,  such 
messes  never  intruded  themselves  upon 
the  surface;  they  might  rage  inwardly, 
but  if  allowed  publicity,  they  carried  their 


78  A  THING  APART 

participants  beyond  a  very  definite  so- 
cial boundary. 

Dane's  father,  being  nearest  to  Judith's 
chair,  pulled  it  out  for  her  and  Dane 
seated  Mrs.  Sangster,  who  reached  up  and 
fastened  a  rose-bud  in  his  lapel.  As  he 
leaned  over  her  the  fragrance  of  her  hair 
offended  him.  It  was  almost  like  a  caress. 

"Much  obliged,"  he  muttered  stiffly, 
and  without  looking  at  Judith,  abruptly 
excused  himself  and  left. 

Up  in  his  own  rooms,  he  confronted 
himself  sternly  in  a  long  mirror.  His 
face  held  still  the  yellowish  white  color 
that  extreme  anger  always  put  there.  His 
eyes  were  pin-point  pupiled,  and  his 
thin  delicate  lips,  tremulous.  He  put  out 
his  hands  against  the  sides  of  the  mirror 
and  leaned  forward  until  his  forehead  al- 
most touched  the  glass. 

"You  had  it  coming  to  you,"  he  said  in 
a  tense  sick  voice.  "So  help  you  God, 
you'll  never  lose  your  temper  again." 


FATHER  AND  SON  79 

Then,  limp  shouldered,  he  went  into  his 
study  and  dropped  into  his  desk  chair.  He 
had  expected  to  drive  in  to  New  York 
later  with  his  father,  but  now  he  would 
go  in  the  roadster  and  take  Judith  with 
him — Judith,  even  the  thought  of  her  was 
wonderful,  it  obliterated  all  things  else. 
He  was  quickly  anxious  to  tell  her  what 
had  happened  at  breakfast,  everything. 
He  had  been  sorting  through  a  pile  of 
letters  for  the  one  from  his  "Wyoming 
foreman,  but  he  dropped  his  head  on  his 
arms  and  thought  of  Judith. 

Finally  he  heard  the  voices  of  the  guests 
going  out  into  the  garden,  and  went  to  the 
window.  His  father  was  not  with  them. 
Dane  stepped  out  on  the  porch  and  called 
down  carelessly: 

" Judith,  I've  got  to  drive  into  New 
York  right  away;  will  you  come  along?" 

She  looked  up,  shading  her  eyes  with 
both  hands.  How  wonderful  she  was! 

"Oh,  Dane,  I  don't  believe  so.     It 'a 


80  A  THING  APART 

awfully  hot,  isn't  it  ?  Billy  and  I  thought 
we'd  go  out  in  the  canoe  after  while." 

Dane's  pulses  slowed  disconcertingly. 

"Can't  you  wait  till  to-morrow,  old 
man?"  asked  Billy  who  had  stopped  at 
Judith's  side. 

"No,"  he  replied  curtly,  then,  remem- 
bering the  misery  that  lay  ahead  of  Billy, 
he  added  a  hastily  cordial,  "I  wish  I 
could,  but  I'll  come  out  early  and  beat  you 
a  game  of  tennis." 

"Don't  drive  too  fast,"  Judith  admon- 
ished carelessly,  going  on  with  Billy. 

Dane  watched  them  from  behind  the 
curtains,  but  he  saw  only  the  glistening 
gold  leaves  on  Billy's  shoulders.  What 
his  father  had  intimated  was  true ;  he  had 
been  brave  beyond  wisdom,  but  his  dis- 
cipline had  many  times  descended  to 
morale-wrecking  anger.  Humiliating  bit- 
terness surged  over  him. 

"Judith  may  not  think  she  cares  any- 
thing about  him,  but  I'll  wager  she  does," 


FATHER  AND  SON  81 

he  goaded  himself.  "She  must  be  com- 
paring us,  too.  If  she  loved  me,  she'd 
want  to  come  with  me,  she  wouldn't  want 

to  stay  here  with  him "  he  yanked  his 

tie  savagely  and  tore  his  collar. 

And  then  he  saw  Judith  leave  Billy 
when  they  reached  the  others,  and  come 
running  back  toward  the  house.  Franti- 
cally he  searched  for  another  collar,  ad- 
justing it  with  trembling  fingers.  Per- 
haps she  wasn't  coming  to  see  him,  after 
all.  He  stood  still,  one  hand  tightly 
clutching  a  chair-back,  and  waited.  He 
could  not  hear  her  down-stairs,  and  tiny 
drops  of  perspiration  came  out  on  his 
forehead.  And  then  came  her  timid  cau- 
tious voice: 

"Dane!  oh,  Dane!" 

He  gave  an  audible  gasp  of  relief  and 
rushed  to  the  door. 

*  *  Yes  ?    Where  are  you  ? ' ' 

"Here — in  the  library.  Can — can  you 
come  here  a  minute?" 


82  A  THING  APART 

He  walked  sedately  down  the  stairs, 
conquering  his  longing  to  take  them  three 
steps  at  a  time ;  he  even  gave  Sarah  a  cool 
order  that  took  her  toward  other  regions. 
Judith  came  across  the  big  room  to  meet 
him.  She  put  her  arms  up  around  his 
neck  and  kissed  him. 

"I  just  had  to  tell  you  good-by,"  she 
whispered,  "so  I  told  them  I  wanted  you 
to  take  in  my  tennis  racquet  to  be  mended. 
Are  you  glad?" 

"Oh,  Judith,"  he  mumbled  into  her 
hair,  "you  certainly  play  the  devil  with 
me !  You  acted  so  cool  out  there  I  thought 
you'd — you'd  changed  your  mind." 

"Why,  you  blessed  idiot;  you  don't 
want  me  rushing  into  your  arms  publicly, 
do  you? — at  least  until  next  week." 

The  matter-of-fact  way  in  which  she 
tossed  the  immensities  of  life  into  their 
conversations,  struck  him  dumb.  In  a 
week  they  would  be  married — married. 

"Oh,  Dane,"  she  held  him  away  from 


FATHEK  AND  SON  83 

her,  "what  were  you  shouting  at  your 
father  about?  Was — was  it  about  any- 
thing we  were  talking  of,  last  night?" 

"Y-es,  but  I  spoiled  it  all  with  my 
damnable  temper.  Dad  had  just  told  me 
some  pretty  raw  facts ;  you  know,  Judith, 
I'm  a  poor  specimen  to  go  around  giving 
any  kind  of  advice." 

"Oh,  Dane  Elridge,  how  I  do  love  you," 
she  made  amazing  answer. 

"Then  come  into  town  with  me;  oh,  do, 
Judith;  why  not?" 

"Dear,  I  promised  Billy  before  I  knew 
you  were  going.  Besides,  when  I'm  with 
you  I  can't  think  of  anything  but  loving 
you;  and  I  want  to  think — seriously — 
about  what  is  best  for  us  to  do,  all  this 
week. 

"Judith,  there's  only  one  thing,  pos- 
sibly. We  love  each  other  and  we're  go- 
ing to  be  married.  I  don't  see  why  we 
have  to  take  a  week's  vacation  from  each 
other." 


84  A  THING  APART 

"Because  I've  got  to  be  sure,  Dane, 
sure  that  we  love  each  other  enough  so  we 
won't  get  tired  after  while." 

"Well,  how  in  thunder  do  you  expect  to 
find  out,  canoeing  with  Billy  ?  You  know 
perfectly  well,  Judith,  that  we're  going 
to  be  married.  There's  only  one  way  of 
being  sure  of  a  thing,  and  that's  trying. 
If  we  don't  like  it,  why,  then  we  can  find 
a  way  out." 

He  knew  by  her  eyes  that  he  had  said 
the  wrong  thing.  She  stared  at  him  an 
instant,  helpless  before  his  careless  philos- 
ophy. Then  she  spoke  sharply: 

"That's  it,  Dane,  that's  just  the  trou- 
ble. I'll  never  marry  you  so  long  as  I 
feel  you  look  no  further  ahead  than  the 
pleasure  we  may  have  in  each  other  for 
the  next  few  months — or  years.  I'm  not 
going  to  have  my  love  for  you  dragged 
along  over  a  lot  of  horrible  years.  I'd 
rather  make  myself  get  over  it  now,  while 
I'm  strong  enough." 


FATHER  AND  SON  85 

He  laughed  and  drew  her  into  his  arms 
again. 

"You're  the  worried  one.  I  know  I'm 
in  for  life.  Kiss  me,  quick,  somebody's 
coming."  Her  lips  seemed  sweeter  every 
time  he  touched  them. 

4 '  It 's  Mrs.  Sangster.  Isn  't  she  the  pest  ? 
I  '11  wager  she 's  just  coming  back  to  see  if 
my  racquet  really  is  broken.  I'll  have  to 
go  and  punch  a  hole  in  it.  Oh,  darn,  best 
racquet  I  ever  owned,  too.  Good-by,  dear. 
Come  back  right  after  luncheon,  won't 
you?" 

"I'll  say  I  will,"  he  assured  her,  and 
posed  himself  in  deep  absorption  in  the 
morning  newspaper. 


CHAPTER  Y 

MAKING  A  DAY  OF  IT 

"On,  Dane!"  Mrs.  Sangster  called  in 
from  the  doorway,  " Judith  said  you're 
going  in  town, — soon?" 

"Right  away;  Tom's  bringing  the  car 
around  now.  Anything  I  can  do  for  you  ? ' ' 
He  made  an  especial  effort  to  speak  cas- 
ually for  he  had  a  strange  feeling  of  aloof- 
ness from  her  since  he  and  Judith  had 
talked  about  her.  She  seemed  rather  like 
some  sort  of  a  specimen,  that,  if  one  had 
the  desire,  might  prove  very  interesting 
to  experiment  with. 

"Oh,  do  be  a  dear  and  wait  for  me." 
She  ran  lightly  across  the  room,  talking 
as  she  went,  "I'll  chase  into  my  clothes; 
I  simply  have  to  match  that  yarn  for  my 
sweater  and  it's  such  a  glorious  morn — " 
86 


MAKING  A  DAY  OF  IT  87 

Her  voice  silenced  itself  in  the  halls 
above,  leaving  a  stupid-looking  young 
fellow  staring,  open-mouthed,  as  if  to 
swallow  the  remaining  words  of  her  sen- 
tence if  they  ever  reached  him.  Judith 
came  running  down  the  stairs,  an  almost 
audible  question  on  her  face. 

"Now  will  you  tell  me  why  the  deuce 
she  doesn't  wait  and  go  in  with  dad?" 
he  demanded. 

"mot" 

"Why,  her;  she's  going  in  with  me. 
She's  getting  ready." 

"Dane,  no!" 

He  answered  the  accusation  in  her 
voice. 

"Well,  Lord  of  Heaven!  I  can't  help 
it.  You  wouldn't  go.  What  could  I  say 
to  her1?" 

Judith  did  not  hesitate.  "Tell  her  I'm 
going — wait.  I'll  hurry." 

"But,  sweetheart!"  he  bolted  after  her 


88  A  THIXG  APART 

and  caught  her  arm.  "She — she  knows 
you  weren't  or  I'd  have  said  so." 

"Oh,  so  you  want  her,  do  you?"  Judith 
flashed  at  him  furiously. 

Dane's  head  felt  like  a  dizzy  top.  Yes- 
terday Judith  had  seemed  a  pillar  of 
poise,  some  several  generations  older  in 
knowledge  than  himself;  to-day  she  was 
a  spoiled  youngster  flying  from  one  mood 
to  another.  But  nothing  before  had  made 
him  so  sure  that  she  loved  him,  and  his 
heart  glowed  within  him.  He  felt  pleas- 
antly old,  and  spoke  with  calm  leniency. 

"Off  you  go  again,  Judith.  Now  just 
stop  and  think  a  minute.  Who's  acting 
like  a  baby  now?  What  on  earth  do  you 
think  the  woman's  going  to  do  to  me,  any- 
how? Do  you  think  I've  never  been  ex- 
posed? Why,  Judith,  you're — silly!" 

Immediately  another  woman  evolved 
out  of  this  complexity  that  confronted 
him,  a  winsome  woman  against  whom 
there  existed  no  weapon. 


MAKING  A  DAY  OF  IT  89 

"I  know  I'm  silly,  Dane.  Of  course  it 
wasn't  your  fault.  You  see,"  she  sol- 
emnly delivered  her  all-covering  explana- 
tion, "you  see,  I  love  you — and,  and  so  I 
can't  help  being  silly.  I  don't  care  at  all 
what  you've  done  up  till  now,  but  now, 
you're  mine." 

This  ultimatum  was  no  sooner  pro- 
nounced than  Mrs.  Sangster  came  flying 
down  the  stairway,  her  charms  undaunted 
by  her  gray  silk  motor  cape  and  close  cap, 
from  the  back  of  which  floated  a  long 
chiffon  veil. 

"She  always  wears  some  darned  float- 
ing thing,"  thought  Dane,  with  uncon- 
scious distaste.  But  Judith  greeted  her 
sweetly. 

"You  look  like  an  Ibsen  lady;  what  a 
love  of  a  cap." 

Mrs.  Sangster  gave  her  a  little  hug  of 
thanks  and  they  chatted  cordially  on  their 
way  to  the  car,  their  arms  about  each 
other.  Dane  walked  beside  Judith,  un- 


90  A  THING  APART 

pleasantly  surprised ;  lie  would  have  pre- 
ferred seeing  her  be  openly  ungracious 
rather  than  so  sweetly  deceitful. 

" They're  all  alike — she's  as  bad  as 
mother,"  he  thought  disgustedly,  and  to 
her  lightly  cheerful,  "We'll  plan  on  some 
tennis  then,  when  you  get  back,"  he 
grunted,  "Un-hunh.  Good-by." 

It  was  no  wonder  that  pretty  women 
turned  to  men  for  friendship  if  women 
who  were  not  so  pretty  were  such  con- 
founded cats  to  them.  He  was  a  little 
sorry  for  Mrs.  Sangster,  but  he  hoped 
fervently  that  she  wouldn't  talk  much. 
He  had  said  very  little  to  her  during  the 
several  weeks  she  had  been  their  house 
guest,  and  before  that  time  he  had  only  a 
bowing  acquaintance  with  her.  When 
they  had  occasionally  been  thrown  to- 
gether at  the  house,  it  had  been  a  consid- 
erable effort  for  him  to  appear  at  ease 
with  her — he  was  always  afraid  of  saying 
something  ludicrously  young.  He  had 


MAKING  A  DAY  OF  IT  91 

realized  carelessly,  without  giving  the 
matter  any  particular  thought,  that  she 
was  his  father's  latest  " affair"  just  as 
several  years  before  her  name  had  been 
lightly  linked  with  that  of  Robert  Doug- 
las, whose  country  place  adjoined  theirs. 
And  after  Bob  Douglas,  there  had  been 
Donald  Rogers;  Dane  remembered  that 
there  had  been  rather  more  than  laughing 
gossip  about  that  affair,  but  Mrs.  Sang- 
ster  was  a  cautious  firefly  and  seldom 
glowed  conspicuously  in  one  spot. 

Now,  as  they  whirred  down  the  beauti- 
ful driveway  to  the  road  that  winds  above 
the  Hudson,  the  memory  of  his  father 
kissing  her  embarrassed  Dane  somewhat ; 
and  yet  in  a  vague  way  it  gave  him  a  feel- 
ing of  sure-f  ootedness. 

" Judith  is  the  dearest  girl,"  was  tha 
first  thing  she  said. 

Dane  digested  this  remark  silently  for 
several  hundred  yards,  and  his  heart 
warmed  toward  her. 


92  A  THING  APART 

"You  never  -knock  any  one,  do  you?" 
lie  reflected  aloud. 

"Why,  I  haven't  any  reason  to;  cer- 
tainly not  Judith." 

"Oh,  sure  not;  but  I  was  just  thinking 
I've  never  heard  you  roast  anybody,  even 
when  the  others  were  ripping  into  some- 
body." 

"W-ell,  every  one  is  splendid,  some 
way  or  another.  It's  just  as  easy  to  think 
about  that  part  of  them."  Her  voice  was 
politely  surprised  and  questioning. 

"You've  said  something.  But  I  can  tell 
you,  there's  mighty  few  women  who  do 
it." 

"Oh,  you're  a  cynic,  like  your  father," 
she  said  carelessly.  "I'm  awfully  obliged 
to  you  though,  Dane,  for  bringing  me.  I 
know  you're  bored  to  death." 

He  glanced  at  her  swiftly,  with  his 
father's  own  mocking  smile,  and  was 
pleased  with  the  easy  retort  that  came  to 
his  lips. 


MAKING  A  DAY  OF  IT  93 

"Now  you  expect  to  be  told  how  de- 
lighted I  am  to  have  you,  and  I'll  be 
darned  if  I'll  do  it." 

She  laughed  prettily. 

"Oh,  you  funny  thing ;  you're  really  the 
most  puzzling  man  I  know." 

He  was  annoyed  at  himself  for  even  no- 
ticing that  she  used  the  word  "man,"  so 
he  dared  a  yet  crisper  response. 

"Oh,  I  say,  Mrs.  Sangster,  that  is  a 
stock  remark;  every  woman  I've  ever 
talked  to  for  half  an  hour,  pulls  it." 

This  time  her  laughter  was  genuine,  so 
genuine  in  fact  that  it  roused  his  doubts 
as  to  whether  she  were  laughing  at  his  re- 
mark, or  at  him. 

"But  you  are  puzzling,  you  indifferent 
thing.  Oh,  please  don't  throw  me  out,  I'll 
never  say  so  again,  never.  I  wish,  though, 
you  wouldn't  call  me  Mrs.  Sangster;  I 
wouldn't  feel  quite  so  old  and  creaky  if 
you'd  say  'Nathalie.' 

He  hoped  to  heaven  he  wasn't  blushing 


94  A  THING  APART 

like  a  fool.  His  tongue  gathered  words 
from  a  source  unknown. 

"Well,  if  I  can  furnish  any  lubricant 
by  saying  Nathalie,  I'll  be  tickled  to  death 
to  do  it.  You  don't  look  as  if  you  needed 
any,  though." 

"Meaning  that  I'm  well  varnished?" 

"I  told  you  I  wouldn't  compliment  you ; 
no  use  trying  to  force  me, — Nathalie." 

"Oh,"  she  laughed,  "but  I  really  need 
compliments  to-day.  It's  my  birthday, 
a-nd,  I'm  thirty  years  old!" 

Dane  was  a  little  surprised;  he  had 
thought  she  was  older. 

"Not  really?"  he  said. 

"Now  you're  not  playing  up  to  form. 
I  know  you  think  I'm  forty." 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  hadn't  thought 
about  you  at  all." 

"Oh!  I  surrender;  don't  waste  any 
more  ammunition.  Consider  me 
squelched." 

They  kept  up  their  sharp  banter  until 


MAKING  A  DAY  OF  IT  95 

in  some  mysterious  way  she  led  the  con- 
versation around  to  his  mother.  She  told 
him  she  thought  his  mother  was  the  most 
wonderful  and  the  dearest  woman  in  the 
world,  and  that  she  had  heen  helped  by 
her  more  than  by  any  one  else  in  the 
world. 

" Helped  you?"  Bane  inquired  blunder- 
ingly, thinking  of  what  he  had  said  to 
Judith. 

In  a  gentle  voice  Mrs.  Sangster  ex- 
plained that  her  life  was  not  a  very  happy 
thing,  that  it  held  many  sorrows  which 
were  bitterly  hard  to  bear.  She  mentioned 
her  husband  with  a  little  shudder  in  her 
voice;  she  had  loved  him,  "as  women  sel- 
dom love,"  and  things  of  which  she  could 
not  bring  herself  to  speak  had  come  be- 
tween them.  She  made  these  confidences 
in  a  simple  direct  manner  that  kept  them 
from  being  embarrassing,  though  Dane 
was  entirely  at  sea  as  to  what  should  be 
said  in  such  circumstances.  So  he  lis- 


96  A  THING  APART 

tened  without  comment,  since  none  seemed 
to  be  expected. 

She  went  on  to  tell  him  that  when  she 
had  first  met  his  father,  Mr.  Elridge  had 
been  at  once  anxious  for  her  to  meet 
Dane's  mother  because  he  knew  that  his 
wife  could  help  her  so  very  much — as,  in- 
deed, she  had. 

It  all  began  to  strike  Dane  as  a  little 
amusing ;  she  surely  had  something  up  her 
sleeve,  all  right.  She  either  thought  him 
an  unmitigated  greenhorn,  or  else  his 
father  was  one  to  fall  for  such  obvious 
stuff  as  this.  He  could  not  resist  saying : 

" Dad's  been  a  pretty  good  assistant 
with  the  'help  stuff,7  hasn't  he?" 

"Oh,  your  father's  a  darling — if  you're 
just  down  on  your  luck  and  need  to  be 
petted  up  a  little.  But  your  mother — oh, 
she's  wonderful.  She's  better  than  any 
doctor."  Dane  laughed  shortly. 

"Well,  she  ought  to  be;  dad's  always 
kept  her  supplied  with  patients." 


MAKING  A  DAY  OF  IT  97 

"How  do  you  mean?"  she  said  interest- 
edly. 

His  eyes  met  hers  in  a  deep  even  glance. 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  Russian  sit- 
uation?" he  asked. 

"Apropos  of  diplomacy,  I  think  it's  in 
a  bad  way,"  she  answered  whimsically, 
her  lips  severely  unsmiling,  but  she 
veered  off  into  a  serious  discourse  of  the 
subject  that  surprised  him  with  her  knowl- 
edge and  grasp  of  the  situation,  until  his 
attention  lapsed.  Then  a  sudden  silence 
made  him  aware  that  she  had  asked  a 
question. 

"I  do  believe  you're  in  love,  Dane  El- 
ridge,"  she  accused  him,  "you've  got 
every  symptom." 

He  turned  and  glared  at  her. 

"Sometime  your  thoughts '11  get  you 
into  trouble." 

"Oh,  aren't  you  the  high  explosive? 
How  many  women  have  you  killed?" 

He  shrugged,  and  drove  faster.     She 


SO  A  THING  APAET 

leaned  forward  and  nearer  to  him,  speak- 
ing distinctly: 

"Why  do  you  dislike  me  so  fearfully, 
Dane?" 

"Because  you  ask  so  many  questions." 
They  were  at  One  Hundred  and  Eighty- 
first  Street  now  and  he  thanked  the  lord 
he  would  soon  be  rid  of  her.  Her  ripple 
of  pretty  laughter  made  him  want  to  upset 
the  car. 

"You  really  don't  dislike  me  at  all," 
she  said,  "and  someday  you'll  realize  it." 

He  made  no  reply  to  this  candid  state- 
ment for  the  simple  reason  that  he  didn't 
know  what  to  say.  Life  was  speeding  up 
with  him  lately  at  such  a  rate  that  he  was 
losing  his  breath. 

"Where  do  you  want  to  stop  ?"  he  asked 
her.  "TheRitz?" 

"No,  you  can  drop  me  at  the  Manhat- 
tan if  you  will.  I  want  to  shop  all  morn- 
ing. Then  can  you  meet  me  for  lunch?" 


MAKING  A  DAT  OF  IT  99 

The  nerve  of  her !  But,  after  all,  it  was 
best  to  leave  her  pleasantly. 

"Like  to,  but  I've  got  to  go  over  to 
Brooklyn.  I'll  phone  dad  to  pick  you  up 
on  his  way  home.  I  promised  I'd  go  back 
right  after  luncheon." 

"But  I'll  be  through  by  luncheon  time. 
I — I  don't  think  you  quite  realize  how 
really  unkind  you've  been  to  me,  you 
dreadful  man." 

He  received  this  with  a  sarcastic  grin 
which  was  speedily  routed  at  sight  of  her 
face.  Her  blue  eyes  had  real  tears  in 
them  and  her  lips  trembled.  They  really 
were  the  prettiest  lips  he  had  ever  seen — 
even  in  the  turmoil  of  his  annoyance  he 
thought  how  darned  pretty  she  was;  and 
now  that  she  had  descended  to  the  com- 
prehensible weeping  female,  he  felt  more 
competent.  W-ell,  after  all,  girls  and 
women  (of  her  type)  were  pretty  much 
the  same.  It  was  his  first  discovery  about 
women  older  than  himself. 


100  A  THING  APART 

"On  the  square,  I'm  sorry,  Mrs.  Sang — • 
Nathalie,  I  mean.  L've  just  been  kidding. 
I  didn't  suppose  it  would  be  any  hardship 
for  you  to  go  home  with  dad.  If  you're 
ready  to  go  right  after  lunch,  I'll  be  glad 
to  take  you,  of  course." 

She  smiled,  mistily. 

"I'm  such  a  fool,"  she  said  in  self -re- 
proof, "but  I — I  don't  always  know  just 
when  I'm  going  to  break  down.  This  is 
a  pretty  hard  day  for  me  always.  It's 
been  just  eight  years  ago  this  morning 
since  my  baby  died — the  last  thing  I  had 
of  happiness." 

Dane's  mental  equilibrium  re-centered 
violently;  what  wouldn't  she  spring  on 
him  next?  First  it  had  been  birthdays, 
then  his  mother's  kindness,  then  marital 
sorrows,  and  now  babies — dead  babies.  It 
all  struck  him  as  a  little  funny. 

But  her  face,  smiling  at  him  wistfully 
as  he  handed  her  out  of  the  car,  appealed 
to  him  suddenly  as  a  really  sad  face. 


MAKING  A  DAY  OF  IT  101 

However,  to  save  his  soul  lie  couldn't  have 
said  anything  sympathetic  about  the  baby 
just  then.  It  was  inconceivable  that  she 
should  ever  have  had  a  baby,  for  she 
seemed  as  foreign  to  motherhood  as  the 
chugging  green  roadster. 

"We  won't  talk  going  home,  and  we'll 
hit  it  off  better,"  he  suggested,  ignoring 
the  baby,  but  squeezing  her  hand  by  way 
of  sympathy  for  her  loss  of  it. 

"Do  come  to  lunch  with  me;  I  won't 
talk,"  she  urged  lingeringly. 

So  he  said  he  would,  and  to  avoid  be- 
coming  further  involved,  he  started  the 
car  while  she  was  still  talking. 

It  was  pleasanter  having  luncheon  with 
her  than  he  had  expected,  although, 
strangely  enough,  he  had  caught  himself 
several  times  during  the  morning  think- 
ing about  her  and  wondering  if  she  really 
liked  him,  or  if  she  were  amusing  herself 
with  him,  or  if  she  perhaps  knew  that  he 


102  A  THING  APART 

had  seen  his  father  kiss  her  and  was  wor- 
ried about  it.  He  could  come  to  no  defin- 
ite conclusion  about  her. 

But  he  found  her  vivacious  and  full  of 
laughter.  She  had  "got  hold  of  herself" 
she  told  him,  and  she  put  him  at  his  ease 
immediately.  She  was  by  far  the  most 
beautiful  woman  in  the  gay  dining-room 
and  he  enjoyed  being  with  a  woman  who 
attracted  every  one's  admiring  attention. 
He  felt  a  decided  man  of  the  world,  and 
glowed  pleasantly  as  he  ordered  an  ex- 
travagant luncheon. 

He  never  knew  exactly  how  it  happened 
that  they  did  not  go  home  that  afternoon. 
They  started.  He  drove  her  to  several 
upper  Fifth  Avenue  shops  on  the  way,  and 
thus  got  stalled  in  a  "Victory"  parade 
which  held  them  up  for  half  an  hour,  hap- 
pening to  find  friends  of  Mrs.  Sangster 
in  the  limousine  beside  them.  So  they  all 
drove  back  to  the  hotel  for  tea.  And  then 
they  danced ;  and  afterward  a  French  of- 


MAKING  A  DAY  OF  IT  103 

f  icer  kept  them  until  dinner  time  listening 
to  hia  vivid  accounts  of  bringing  down 
German  planes.  So  they  all  had  dinner 
together.  Several  times  Dane  thought  of 
Judith.  Once  he  said  to  Mrs.  Sangster 
while  they  were  dancing: 

"I  guess  Bill  and  Judith '11  wonder 
what's  become  of  us  for  that  tennis 
game. ' ' 

"They  won't  even  miss  us,"  she  as- 
sured him,  "  those  two  will  be  married  be- 
fore his  furlough's  over.  If  they  miss  us 
at  all,  they'll  be  glad  they  do." 

Dane  ceased  to  hear  the  music,  omitted 
several  steps,  and  completely  changed  the 
glad  course  of  the  unfortunate  couple 
behind  them. 

"Aw,  she'll  never  marry  slow  old  Bill," 
he  managed  to  say  in  an  uninterested 
manner ;  but  from  that  instant  he  fretted 
to  get  away,  and  once  started  home,  he 
drove  like  a  demon  all  the  way,  but  it  was 
nine-thirty  and  more  when  they  turned 


104  A  THING  APART 

into  the  wide  elm-bordered  driveway.  He 
could  not  have  repeated  one  sentence  that 
Mrs.  Sangster  had  said  to  him,  much  less 
anything  he  had  said  to  her.  His  mind 
was  full  of  Judith — what  had  she  been 
doing  all  day — what  had  Bill  said  to  her 
— perhaps  he  had  drowned  her  in  that 
sailboat — what  did  she  think  he  had  been 
doing  all  day — would  she  be  angry — 
would  he  have  a  chance  to  kiss  her — 

His  father  sauntered  down  from  the 
wide  veranda  to  greet  them. 

"Well,  you  two  have  certainly  made  a 
day  of  it. ' '  His  voice  held  a  peculiar  note, 
as  of  a  vexatious  question  directed  at  the 
woman. 

Dane  said  nothing.  He  stayed  in  the 
car  and  himself  drove  it  back  to  the 
garage. 


CHAPTER  VI 

TWO  NOTES  AND  A  POSTSCRIPT 
> 

HE  came  into  the  house  by  a  side  en- 
trance and  found  Mrs.  Lawson  reading  in 
the  south  library.  To  his,  "  Hello,  Aunt 
Lawson,  where 's  everybody?"  Mrs.  Law- 
son  responded  with  a  good-naturedly 
annoyed : 

"I  don't  know  and  I  don't  care,  if 
they'll  only  let  me  read  a  minute  in  peace. 
I  think  Judith  and  Billy  went  off  some- 
where to  a  dance  across  the  lake." 

Dane  went  directly  up  to  his  own  rooms 
where  he  threw  himself  down  on  a  couch 
and  let  his  mind  wander  into  suppositions 
about  Judith.  But  he  had  lain  there 
only  five  minutes  when  he  heard  his 
mother's  light  running  tap  on  his  door. 
105 


106  A  THING  APART 

He  had  not  spoken  with  her  since  the  day 
before  when  she  was  painting  on  the  lawn. 
Now  he  would  have  to  apologize.  He  had 
promised  Judith  he  would;  but  if  she 
could  only  have  let  him  alone  until 
morning. 

"May  I  come  in,  dear?"  came  her  thin 
cheery  voice. 

"Why,  I  guess  so,"  he  said  ungra- 
ciously ;  why  did  she  always  strike  him  at 
the  wrong  time? 

She  came  directly  to  the  couch  and, 
leaning  down,  smoothed  her  hand  back 
over  his  black  hair. 

"Judith  has  told  me,"  he  could  hear 
her  long  uneven  breath.  "I  spoke  too 
hastily  yesterday,  Dane.  I'm  very  sorry. 
I—" 

He  sat  bolt  upright,  tossing  his  hair 
back  with  an  irritated  fling  of  his  head. 

"Oh,  good  lord,  mother!  Why  are  you 
always  going  around  apologizing?  You 
didn't  call  me  down  half  enough  and  you 
know  it.  Why  don't  you  say  so?" 


TWO  NOTES  AND  A  POSTSCRIPT        107 

She  had  backed  away  from  him,  look- 
ing, as  she  often  did,  as  if  she  had 
expected  him  to  strike  her.  She  wore  a 
brick-red  tunic  arrangement  of  rough 
silk  embroidered  in  black  yarn,  and  her 
hair  was  disheveled  as  though  she  had 
been  lying  down.  Several  faded  unsuc- 
cessful streaks  exhibited  themselves  in- 
sistently among  the  bright  brown. 

"Well,  Dane,"  she  murmured,  "you 
do  astonish  me." 

"I  guess  that's  nothing  unusual.  But 
I'd  think  you'd  get  tired  apologizing  for 
what  other  people  do  to  you.  Now  I 
acted  like  the  devil  yesterday  and  I'm 
sorry  about  it,  and  it's  my  job  to  apolo- 
gize— not  yours." 

"Is  that  what  you're  doing!"  she  in- 
quired, smiling. 

"I  am,"  he  grinned,  and  lowered  his 
voice.  "But,  but  say,  mother,  why  don't 
you  quit  painting  your  hair?  It  looks 
like  the  very  deuce.  Let  it  get  gray.  You 
don't  fool  anybody." 


108  A  THING  APAKT 

She  put  her  hands  up  to  her  head  and 
made  a  futile  effort  to  smooth  the  stray- 
ing hairs.  Her  lips  trembled  a  little  but 
her  voice  was  quiet  enough: 

"I  dislike  it  dreadfully,  myself,  but  I 
— I — would  you  like  it  better  gray?" 

"Of  course  I  would,"  he  nodded  vigor- 
ously. He  was  in  a  mood  that  the  quickly 
controlled  tremor  of  her  lips  touched  im- 
measurably. 

Swinging  his  feet  to  the  floor,  he  put 
his  hands  out  to  her  with  an  impulsive 
jerk  and  took  firm  hold  of  her  cold  ones 
that  she  put,  questioningly,  into  his. 

"I  can't  half  tell  you  how  sorry  I  am 
about  a  whole  lot  of  things,  mother;  but, 
but  I'll  try  to  make  a  better  showing  after 
this." 

The  cords  in  her  throat  contracted  so 
tightly  that  they  became  visible,  and  he 
dropped  his  eyes  uncomfortably  before 
the  emotion  that  flamed  into  her  sensi- 
tive slender  face.  She  lifted  his  hands 


TWO  NOTES  AND  A  POSTSCRIPT        109 

and  bowed  her  head  on  them ;  and  he  felt 
her  kiss  them.  A  sickening  embarrass- 
ment took  hold  of  him.  She  knew  he 
hated  this  sort  of  thing — it  was  all  dra- 
matic and  unnecessary.  He  pulled  away 
and  she  immediately  dropped  his  hands, 
turning  quickly  from  him  and  going  over 
to  the  window  where  she  stood  silently 
looking  out  over  the  moonlit  grounds. 
Standing  with  her  back  to  him,  she 
might  easily  have  been  the  girl  her 
straight  queer  gown  suggested.  Her  fig- 
ure was  straight  and  slender  and  her 
ankles  were  even  prettier  than  Judith's. 

Suddenly,  uttering  a  short  exclamation, 
she  brought  a  note  out  of  one  of  her  big 
pockets.  "Oh,  Dane,  I  forgot.  Judith 
left  this  note  for  you  if  you  got  home  be- 
fore she  did." 

He  lunged  up  from  the  couch  and  took 
the  folded  paper  from  her.  His  mother 
watched  him  while  he  read  it,  watched  his 
face  change  from  its  eagerness  to  childish 


110  A  THING  APART 

ill-humor.    He  seemed  very  young  again 
all  of  an  instant.    The  note  was  short. 

"Did  you  forget  you  promised  to  come 
back  early  and  play  tennis  ?  I  wonder  if 
all  your  promises  are  going  to  be  kept 
like  this  first  one.  At  least  you  are  giving 
me  something  to  think  about  during  this 
week.  You  must  have  had  a  very  pleasant 
time  with  Mrs.  Sangster.  J." 

"Oh,  damn  it!"  he  exploded.  "When 
did  she  give  you  this?" 

"Just  as  she  was  leaving." 

"Yes — to  go  off  with  Bill,  splendid  fine 
Bill,  be  true  to  her  always,  a  wonderful 
match,  sterling  qualities — bah.  Where 'd 
they  go?" 

"Janet  Heald  phoned  they're  having  a 
dance  out  on  the  pavilion,"  answered  his 
mother  quietly,  "so  Judith  and  Billy 
rowed  across  the  lake." 

"She's  got  a  lot  of  room  to  kick  about 
me;"  he  crumpled  the  note  and  hurled  it 
over  into  the  waste-basket,  glowering 


TWO  NOTES  AND  A  POSTSCRIPT        111 

down  at  Ms  mother  as  though  she  were 
the  offender.  "She's  crazy  about  Bill 
Newland  and  she  knows  it.  You  can't 
tell  anything  by  what  she  says,  she's  just 
as  deceitful  as  they  get — she  is,  I  say! 
Didn't  I  hear  her  this  morning,  ripping 
into  Nathalie  one  minute  and  palavering 
over  her  the  next?" 

"My  de-ar;  and  only  yesterday  you  re- 
buked me  scathingly  for  not  saying  'Mrs. 
Sangster.'  You  aren't  exactly  consistent, 
are  you?  And  I'm  sure  you  don't  know 
what  you're  saying,  Dane.  You  can't 
love  Judith,  if  you  do  not  trust  her — even 
with  Billy  whom  she's  gone  about  with  all 
her  life.  Judith's  being  with  Billy 
doesn't  affect  her  love  for  you  in  any  way, 
just  as  your  being  with  Mrs.  Sangster  all 
day  hasn't  made  you  love  Judith  any  less, 
has  it?" 

He    sneered    contemptuously    at    the 
ridiculousness  of  the  question. 

"That    woman;    well    s-ay,     mother, 


112  A  THING  APART 

what'd  you  think  I  am?  You  make  me 
sick." 

For  she  had  looked  so  plainly  relieved 
that  there  was  no  mistaking  her  anxiety. 
He  peeled  off  his  coat  and  threw  it  down 
on  the  couch,  lounging  back  into  a  big 
tufted  chair. 

"I  have  known  men,  of  discernment, 
who  have  not  been  so  scornful  of  Na- 
thalie's charms,"  she  said  with  a  touch  of 
irony,  settling  herself  nervously  on  a 
straight-backed  chair,  rather  like  a  bird 
on  an  uncomfortable  nest. 

"Maybe  you  have.  But  Judith  knows 
I'm  about  as  much  interested  in  any  other 
woman  as  I  am  in  spiritualism.  She's 
nothing  but  a  jealous  little  cat.  You  can 
say  all  you  want  to,  but,  after  all, 
Nathalie's  less  of  a  cat  than — than  any  of 
you." 

"In  what  way  do  you  think  I  am  a 
cat?"  she  asked  quickly. 

"Every  way,"  he  retorted  instantly, 


TWO  NOTES  AND  A  POSTSCRIPT         113 

"only  you — you've  cut  your  claws  off  and 
all  you've  got  left  is  the  purr." 

His  mother  gave  a  queer  startled  little 
laugh.  She  started  to  put  her  hands  up 
to  her  head  in  her  characteristic  gesture, 
held  them  an  instant  in  the  air,  waver- 
ingly,  and  finally  sheltered  them  in  her 
big  pockets. 

"Does  Nathalie  never  'purr"?" 

He  wondered  how  in  the  mischief 
things  had  worked  themselves  about  until 
he  found  himself  championing  Mrs. 
Sangster. 

"Let  me  tell  you  she  said  more  decent 
things  about  people  this  morning  than 
I've  heard — oh,  well,  what  in  the  deuce 
are  we  sitting  here  chewing  the  rag  for?" 

"I'm  going  in  a  minute,  Dane.  But,  oh, 
don't — don't  start  in  this  way  with  Ju- 
dith, dear.  There  are  so  few  girls  as  un- 
spoiled as  Judith — so  absolutely  open 
and  frank  with  their  emotions.  And 
every  time  you  let  a  nasty  mood  take  hold 


114  A  THING  APART 

of  you,   you're  weakening  yourself   far 
more  than  you  realize.    You  ought — " 

"Say!"  he  cut  in,  "what  are  you  pull- 
ing off,  mother? — a  lecture  on  something 
you  don't  know  anything  about.  Great 
Scott,  she's  the  jealous  one,  sore  be- 


cause— " 


"Stop,  Dane!  don't  say  another  word 
about  Judith.  You  '11  only  be  ashamed  of 
it  afterward."  She  stood  up  and  took 
hold  of  the  back  of  the  chair.  "I  don't 
think  at  all  that  Judith  is  jealous  of  you, 
but  if  she  is,  it's  perfectly  natural.  When 
you  love  any  one,  I  think  you're  always 
jealous  of  them — but  you're  not  sus- 
picious. And  that's  what  makes  me  very, 
very  afraid  that  you've  done  wrong  to 
think  of  marrying  Judith.  Jealousy  is 
always  a  little  dignified  by  the  love  that 
prompts  it,  but  suspicion  has  nothing 
back  of  it  but  passion." 

"I  say,  mother,  you're  in  great  form; 
rhetorical  and  delicate.  It's  a  shame  to 
discourage  you,  but  honestly,  I'm  sleepy." 


TWO  NOTES  AND  A  POSTSCRIPT        115 

She  felt  about  the  chair-back  as  if  for 
a  firmer  place  to  hold. 

"Very  well;  but  here's  another  note 
from  Judith;  she  asked  me  to  give  it  to 
you  five  minutes  after  the  first  one." 

"What  is  this? — some  sort  of  a  game?" 

Unanswering  she  handed  him  another 
note  that  he  took  without  looking  at  her, 
muttering  something  about  "all  this  darn 
foolishness."  He  felt  ludicrously  like  a 
sullen  youngster  being  coaxed  out  of  a 
temper  but  he  could  not  resist  quickly 
reading  the  note. 

"My!  but  you've  been  angry  for  five 
minutes,  haven't  you?  Old  Silly!  You 
deserve  to  be  punished,  for  I  think  you 
might  have  telephoned  when  you  found 
you  couldn't  come  out  early.  I've  told 
your  mother  all  about  us,  that  maybe  in  a 
week  we'll  be  married,  and  everything. 
She's  awfully  glad.  And,  dear,  I  told  her 
you've  always  been  terribly  fond  of  her 
but  that  something  about  you  keeps  you 
from  showing  how  you  really  feel.  She 
said  she  understood.  And  do  be  just  as 
dear  to  her  as  you  possibly  can.  Remem- 


116  A  THING  APART 

her,  that  she's  going  to  be  my  mother,  too, 
and  I  want  her  to  be  very,  very  happy." 

The  postscript  that  followed  was  in  the 
tiniest  of  writing  as  though  the  words 
were  bashful  of  being  read. 

"I  expect  we'll  be  home,  late ;  but  if  you 
hear  us  come  in  and  then  wait  fifteen  min- 
utes, and  then  tiptoe  to  the  south  porch,  I 
think  there'll  be  some  one  there  to  say  good 
night  to  you." 

Dane's  nose  became  alarmingly  threat- 
ened with  sharp  pricking  sensations  and 
he  wiggled  it  vigorously  to  dispel  the 
symptoms ;  he  had  felt  ready  to  cry  the  last 
two  days  at  the  drop  of  a  hat.  He  looked 
over  at  his  mother,  curiously;  she  had 
taken  up  some  kodak  pictures  of  his 
ranch  and  was  looking  through  them.  She 
was  a  pretty  good  little  fellow,  after  all ; 
instead  of  resenting  her  presence  there  as 
an  intrusion,  he  was  suddenly  glad  that 
she  had  come.  Had  Judith  hypnotized 
him?  Did  she  run  him  body  and  soul, 


TWO  NOTES  AND  A  POSTSCRIPT        117 

that  she  was  able  to  regulate  his  moods  as 
easily  as  she  would  turn  the  electric  lights 
on  and  off1?  But  at  least  this  last  mood 
offered  him  the  comfort  that  comes  with 
the  leaving  of  pain  and  he  felt  willing  to 
enter  whole-heartedly  into  its  possibili- 
ties, but  speech  did  not  come  easily.  It 
never  did.  Anger  seemed  to  be  his  only 
freely  expressed  emotion,  but  he  put  forth 
a  valiant  effort  to  give  out  the  kindliness 
that  invaded  him,  a  flattering  cordiality 
in  his  voice. 

"Well,  suppose  you  sit  down  and  talk 
a  while,  mother." 

Her  expression  was  comic.  He  grinned 
widely,  his  face  flushing. 

"This  note  was  more  like  it.  Here,  sit 
down  here."  Rising,  he  took  her  shoul- 
ders and  pushed  her  gently  back  into  the 
big  chair,  throwing  himself  full  length  on 
the  couch,  facing  her,  while  his  words  gal- 
loped on  into  green  pastures.  "This  be- 
ing in  love  business  has  about  got  the  best 


118  A  THING  APART 

of  me;  but  you  know  IVe  an  idea  if  it 
doesn't  kill  me  it  may  do  me  good.  Oh, 
lord,  mother!  I  wish  you  could  see  how 
funny  you  look!" 

He  began  laughing  uproariously — 
never  had  be  known  such  pleasure  in 
laughter;  he  reveled  in  it.  His  mother's 
face  might  have  been  a  sculptor's  image 
of  bewilderment. 

"Now  go  ahead  and  say  everything 
that's  on  your  mind,"  he  urged  her.  "I 
want  you  to  rip  into  me  for  fair;  don't 
wait;  begin  while  I  feel  like  this." 

His  mother  moistened  her  lips. 

"You  do  love  Judith,"  she  said  with  an 
emphasis  that  spoke  to  herself  rather  than 
to  him,  "you  love  her." 

"You've  hit  it,  mother ;  I  love  her."  He 
lay  back  among  the  plump  cushions, 
basking  in  this  new  ease  of  spirit  like  a 
cat  in  unexpected  sunshine.  He  could 
see  that  his  mother  was  at  a  loss  to  know 
what  to  do.  She  was  staring  at  him,  smil- 


TWO  NOTES  AND  A  POSTSCRIPT         119 

ing,  pathetic  in  her  uncertainty.  He  went 
easily  to  her  rescue,  urged  on  at  the  back 
of  his  brain  by  the  blissful  refrain,  "In  a 
little  while  I'll  kiss  her  good  night — kiss 
her  good  night — kiss  her  good  night." 

"You  don't  know  what's  struck  me,  do 
you,  mother?  "Well,  neither  do  I.  But 
let's  talk!  You've  always  wanted  to,  and 
now's  your  chance — I  may  never  feel  like 
this  again.  How  in  the  deuce  do  I  hap- 
pen to  be  such  a  queer. one,  mother?" 

"Why,  Dane,  do — do  you  feel  that 
you're  ' queer'?"  Her  voice  was  like  a 
tight  little  wire.  She  reached  up  and 
pulled  off  the  desk  light  so  that  her  face 
was  in  shadow. 

' '  Feel  it  I  WTiy,  sure  I  do.  I  Ve  always 
been  bottled  up,  sort  of  never  can  get  the 
cork  out.  Even  the  shrapnel  couldn't 
knock  it  out  of  me.  Until  right  now,  I 
mean  until  yesterday,  I  don't  believe  I've 
ever  said  things  I  really  thought,  in  all 
my  life.  Now,  I'm  afraid  I'm  going  to 


120  A  THING  APART 

go  round  chattering  to  strangers  and  mak- 
ing a  worse  ass  of  myself  in  the  other 
direction.  But  over  there,  I  never  could 
sit  around  and  talk  the  way  the  other  fel- 
lows did;  g-osh,  I  used  to  want  to,  some- 
times. ' ' 

"If  I  should  tell  you  something,  Dane, 
something  I  never  expected  to  speak  of 
so  long  as  I  lived,  will  you  try  not  to 
think  I'm — I'm,  well,  trying  to  be  theatri- 
cal or  anything  of  the  kind?" 

He  had  never  heard  her  voice  so  empty 
and  dull  of  tone.  It  usually  held  a  bright- 
ness as  artificial  as  did  her  hair. 

"Why,  sure,"  he  said,  wondering,  and 
quickly  uncomfortable. 

"You  are  realizing  now,  Dane,  how  ab- 
solutely your  love  for  Judith  is  going  to 
govern  you ;  you  can  imagine  perhaps  how 
you  would  suffer  if  you  should  find  out 
she  shared  her  love  with  some  one  else. 
And  when  you've  married  Judith,  dear 
well,  then. . .  .then  you'll  know  how 


TWO  NOTES  AND  A  POSTSCRIPT        121 

happy  I  was years  ago.     And  then, 

during  the  months  before  you  were  born, 
I  found  out  that  there . . .  there  were  other 
women,  I  mean  another  woman.  So, .... 
so  that  all  the  time  I  was  planning  for 
you  and  trying  to  make  myself  happy  in 
your  coming,  I  knew  that  your  father  was 
kissing  that  other  woman  and  taking  her 
into  his  arms ....  and ....  and  loving  her. 
I  was  pretty  young  then,  and  I  didn't 
bear  it  very  bravely,  though  I  never  spoke 
of  it  to  a  living  soul. 

1  'That,"  she  ended  in  the  same  inflec- 
tionless  voice,  "I  have  always  thought  is 
why  you  have  such  an  unfortunate  dis- 
position. I  wasn't  able,  either,  to  say  the 
things  that  were  in  my  heart." 

"Why,  my  God,  mother!"  Dane's  voice 
came  in  a  sort  of  hurt  whine  for  in  the 
most  curious  way,  Judith  seemed  involved 
in  the  pity  that  swept  over  him,  so  that 
his  love  for  her,  quick  and  strong  and  pro- 
tective, reached  out  and  enveloped  his 


122  A  THING  APART 

mother.     "Why,  my  God,  mother,  how 
could  you  go  on  living  with  him?" 

"No!"  she  cried  sharply,  "don't  misun- 
derstand, Dane.  I'm  not  trying  to  preju- 
dice you — I'm  not  complaining.  It  isn't 
as  if  you  didn't  know  that  your  father  has, 
oh — has  cared  about  other  women;  but 
you've  always  regarded  it  so  lightly.  I 
thought — "  she  groped  for  words,  finding 
them  with  difficulty.  "I  only  wanted 
you  to  realize,  now  that  you  love  Judith, 
that— that— " 

"I  expect  to  be  true  to  Judith,  mother," 
he  said  stiffly,  in  miserable  embarrass- 
ment. "Did  she  ask  you  to  tell  me  this?" 

He  knew  even  while  he  spoke,  that  she 
had  not. 

"What?  Why,  how  could  Judith- 
why,  Judith  doesn't  know  anything,  of 
She  suddenly  remembered  what  he 
had  told  her  about  seeing  his  father  kiss 
Mrs.  Sangster.  "Oh,  you  mean  because 
of  yesterday.  But  you  see  Judith  would 


TWO  NOTES  AND  A  POSTSCRIPT        123 

never  say  anything  about  that  to  me. 
Judith  thinks  I'm  very  happy,  Dane,  and 
I  always  want  her  to;  she  thinks  I  only 
laugh  at  your  father's  little  affairs.  This 
afternoon  when  we  were  talking  she  men- 
tioned it  several  times — my  always  being 
cheerful,  I  mean." 

"Oh,  sure,"  muttered  Dane  stupidly. 
The  fact  that  his  mother  felt  herself  se- 
cure in  her  pose  of  happiness  struck  him 
with  overwhelming  force ;  she  actually  be- 
lieved that  their  friends  accepted  her  pre- 
tense as  real  indifference.  Why  shouldn't 
she*? — no  doubt  every  one  pretended  to 
accept  them,  just  as  Judith  had  done. 

Through  all  these  years  she  had  laughed 
her  overly-merry  laugh;  hummed  little 
snatches  of  hollow  song  whenever  there 
was  any  one  near  to  hear;  braved  out 
pathetic  jokes  about  his  father's  philan- 
dering ;  thrown  herself  heart  and  soul  into 
anything  that  offered — poetry,  settlement 
work,  suffrage,  now  it  was  painting.  But 


124  A  THING  APART 

through  all  these  same  years  she  had  never 
complained — never  descended  to  seek  for 
sympathy.  Dane  stared  at  her,  curiously 
fascinated,  and  with  the  idea  of  comfort- 
ing her,  said  thoughtfully: 

"But  still,  mother,  it's  you  that  dad 
really  cares  about — these — these  other  af- 
fairs don't  mean  a  darn  thing  in  the  long 


run. ' 


But  his  mother,  having  his  own  and 
Judith's  life  uppermost  in  her  mind, 
turned  his  words  directly  back  at  him : 

* '  Oh,  Dane,  don 't  think  that  way !  Oh,  if 
I  could  only  make  you  understand!  It's 
going  to  be  so  different  with  Judith  than 
with  me,  and  it  will  break  your  whole  life 
if  you  lose  her,  Dane.  I  feel  somehow, 
that  you've  inherited  my — my,  oh,  I 
don't  know  how  to  say  it — my  helplessness 
of  love.  You  must  keep  Judith,  and  you 
never  can,  if  you  don't  honor  her  love. 
She's  so  strong,  and  she's  too  proud  to 
share  herself.  And  she's  another  genera- 


TWO  NOTES  AND  A  POSTSCRIPT        125 

tion — she  knows  other  values  in  life,  than 
love.  Women  are  getting  to  be  more  like 
men ;  they  know  the  value  of  work,  of  hav- 
ing an  economic  value." 

Dane's  mind  recalled  sharply  what 
Judith  had  said  about  earning  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  dollars  a  month.  His 
mother  was  leaning  forward  in  her  chair, 
her  face  ashen  with  the  same  yellowish 
pallor  that  came  to  him  with  anger;  but 
something  so  vivid,  so  intense,  looked  out 
from  her  brown  eyes  that  she  gave  the 
impression  of  glowing,  as  though  her 
cheeks  were  flushed.  She  spoke  faster 
and  faster.  . 

"You — you  think  you're  altogether  like 
your  father,  Dane,  but  you  haven't  his — 
his  adaptability;  you'll  never  be  able  to 
turn  to  something  else  if  one  thing  disap- 
points you.  And  if  you  love  Judith  the 
way  I  feel  you  do,  you  must  never  risk 
losing  her,  remember  it,  Dane,  or — or — " 

— "Or  I'll  go  to  the  devil,  straight-oh," 


126  A  THING  APART 

Dane  finished  grimly.  He  was  tremen- 
dously affected,  but  he  made  a  desperate 
struggle  not  to  show  it.  "I've  had  that 
same  pleasant  thought  several  times,  my- 
self ;  but  that 's  no  reason  you  should  make 
yourself  sick,  mother.  Let's  not  get  so 
tragic  about  it." 

She  was  silent,  so  he  floundered  on : 

"Anyhow,  mother,  I  think  you're  a  real 
brick,  not  to  go  whining  around  all  the 
time.  Here  I've  been  squealing  every 
minute  Judith  is  out  of  my  sight,  and 
you  've  never  squealed  once.  Why,  no  one 
would  ever  have  any  idea  you — you 
worry,  or  anything,  I  mean  that  dad's 
affairs  get  under  your  skin. ' ' 

"Oh,  of  course  not,"  she  murmured. 

A  great  hot  lump  caine  up  into  Dane's 
throat.  He  wanted  suddenly,  and  with- 
out any  feeling  of  surprise,  to  touch  her, 
to  put  his  arms  about  her  and  comfort 
her.  He  couldn't  do  it,  but  he  did  the 
best  he  could  do. 


TWO  NOTES  AND  A  POSTSCRIPT        127 

"Well,  Judith  certainly  loves  you,"  he 
offered  her  comfortingly.  "I  think  she 
loves  you  more  right  now  than  she  does 
Aunt  Lawson." 

"Yes.  I've  always  loved  Judith,"  she 
said  only.  Her  quietness  somewhat 
alarmed  him. 

"Yes.  She — she  told  me  you  used  to 
sing  her  little  songs." 

Silence.  He  leaned  forward,  propped 
on  one  elbow.  Her  eyes  were  closed. 

1 1  Say,  mother — ' ' 

"Yes,  dear." 

"Do — do  you  mind  telling  me  if  it  still 
hurts  like  it  used  to — about  dad?" 

Peering,  he  saw  her  smile  a  little,  but 
she  did  not  open  her  eyes. 

"You  wouldn't  think  so,"  she  said 
apologetically,  "but  it  does." 

Remorse,  so  sharp  that  it  was  pain, 
gripped  Dane.  His  throat  made  a  queer 
choking,  guttural  sound  and  he  slowly 
got  to  his  feet.  Her  eyes  opened  then,  her 


128  A  THING  APAET 

lips  parted  and  her  hands  crept  slowly 
up  over  her  breast  to  her  face. 

"Why,  Dane!"  she  cried  out  in  a 
broken  voice  that  seemed  shamelessly  to 
bare  all  her  valiant  littleness,  and  shrink- 
ing down  into  the  big  chair,  she  buried  her 
head  in  her  arms  and  sobbed  chokingly, 
like  a  child.  He  dropped  down  in  front 
of  her,  and  put  his  arms  up  about  her 
slender  little  body,  muttering  hoarsely : 

"Poor  little  old  mother,  poor  little  old 
mother — " 

It  was  this  way  that  his  father  found 
them.  The  door  into  the  hall  had  been 
slightly  ajar  and  he  had  pushed  it  open 
silently.  He  stood,  staring  at  them,  the 
keeness  of  his  large  featured  face  veiled 
with  incredulity.  He  was  like  a  statue. 

Dane  scrambled  to  his  feet  and  con- 
fronted the  door,  his  hair  disheveled  and 
his  face  furiously  red. 

"C-can't  you  knock?"  he  stammered, 
stepping  in  front  of  his  mother  to  screen 
her  from  his  father's  eyes. 


TWO  NOTES  AND  A  POSTSCRIPT         129 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  apologized  his 
father,  in  a  voice  which  sounded  as  if  it 
were  pulled  from  the  depths  of  astonish- 
ment, and  he  backed  out,  slowly  and 
quietly  closing  the  door.  Dane  turned  and 
looked  down  at  his  mother.  She  was  star- 
ing at  the  closed  door,  her  face  as  empty 
of  emotion  as  a  piece  of  faded  cloth.  Un- 
steadily she  groped  to  her  feet,  her  hands 
fumbling  about  for  a  place  to  hide  them- 
selves and  re-finding  her  pockets.  Her 
mouth  opened  several  times,  wordlessly. 
Then  she  said : 

"Your  father  is  probably  telephoning 
the  county  asylum." 

Her  words  were  such  a  surprise  that 
he  burst  into  wild  meaningless  laughter, 
and  she  laughed  too,  in  breathy,  nerve- 
shaken  little  gasps. 

When  she  reached  the  door,  he  strode 
after  her  and  took  firm  hold  of  her  arm, 
tipping  her  face  upward  so  that  he  peered 
straight  down  into  her  wet  eyes. 

"Now  see  here,  mother:  listen  to  me. 


130  A  THING  APART 

Don't  you  go  trying  to  explain  things,  and 
and  if  dad  says  anything  to  you,  why — 
why  answer  him  back;  you're  too  meek 
with  him,  too  anxious  to  please  him;  just 
spit  something  right  out  at  him." 

She  gave  another  little  burst  of  hysteri- 
cal laughter,  and  was  slipping  through 
the  door  like  a  mouse  escaping  from  a 
playful  friendly  cat,  but  he  tightened  his 
arms  about  her  in  a  fierce  hug,  leaned 
down  and  kissed  her  lips. 

Alone  in  his  room  again,  he  threw  him- 
self down  in  the  big  chair  with  a  soft 
whistle  of  relief.  Now  he  could  think  of 
Judith.  He  stretched  his  legs  out  wearily 
and  discovered  that  his  body  was  so  tired 
it  ached.  His  mind  went  wavering  con- 
fusedly through  the  day's  maze  of  hap- 
penings, but  their  unpleasantness  was 
comfortingly  dulled  by  the  anticipation 
of  Judith's  kiss.  Would  she  never  come 
home? 

At  last  he  heard  them.  It  was  nearly 
midnight.  Judith's  rooms  were  on  the 


TWO  NOTES  AND  A  POSTSCRIPT        131 

same  floor  on  the  other  side  of  the  house. 
He  took  out  his  watch,  not  trusting  to  the 
clock,  and  counted  out  the  longest  fifteen 
minutes  of  his  life.  Then  he  waited  five 
minutes  over  time,  put  on  his  coat,  and 
hurried  stealthily  down  the  hall.  But  she 
was  not  there,  yet ;  the  shadowed  canopied 
corner  of  the  big  porch  was  empty. 

And  she  did  not  come — she  did  not 
come!  In  weary  misery,  he  wondered  if 
he  could  bear  it.  He  sat  upright  and  rigid 
in  the  swinging  hammock,  suffering; 
watching  the  moon-made  shadows  grow 
longer  and  longer,  and  filled  with  such 
pain  of  disappointment  that  he  was  a  lit- 
tle frightened  at  his  weakness. 

"But  I'm  not  getting  mad,"  he  told 
himself  over  and  over,  with  the  most  pe- 
culiar satisfaction.  He  sat  there,  stiffly 
waiting,  until  half  past  one;  then  he 
stretched  himself  full  length  to  wait  a 
little  longer,  stuffing  one  of  the  hard 
porch  pillows  under  his  head. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THEIR  PLAIN  TALK 

THE  sun  shining  in  his  eyes  wakened 
him,  pulling  him,  unwilling,  from  a  soul- 
exalting  dream  where  bands  were  playing 
and  trumpets  sounding,  and  the  general 
of  his  old  division  was  announcing 
through  a  gigantic  megaphone  that  he — 
Dane  Stillman  Elridge — was  being  made 
the  commander-in-chief  of  the  assembled 
armies  of  the  United  States,  in  recognition 
of  the  fact  that  he  had  not  lost  his  temper 
when  the  Queen  of  Belgium  had  failed  to 
keep  an  appointment  with  him  and  had 
kept  him  waiting  in  the  rain  and  mud  of 
No-Man's  Land,  until  he  had  caught  the 
grippe,  from  which  he  was  still  suffering. 

He  was  just  limping  up  to  receive  his 
132 


THEIR  PLAIN  TALK  133 

new  rank  when  lie  found  himself  rudely 
transferred  to  an  uncomfortable  hammock 
where  he  was  lying  in  a  painfully  cramped 
posture  with  the  sunshine  assaulting  his 
smarting  eyes. 

Achingly,  he  readjusted  himself  to 
reality,  grunting  and  stretching.  He  sat 
up  and  swung  his  legs.  W-ell,  Judith 
hadn't  come,  but  what  of  it?  Why  in  the 
name  of  sense  hadn't  he  gone  to  bed? 
Now,  in  the  freshness  of  the  bright  morn- 
ing, his  misery  of  the  night  before  seemed 
not  only  incredible  but  idiotic. 

It  must  be  late.  He  heard  voices  down 
in  the  garden,  and  laughter — Judith's 
laughter ;  a  hearty  joyous  mirth  that  made 
him  glow  all  over  and  brought  him  to  his 
feet  with  a  start,  anxious  to  see  her.  He 
hurried  back  to  his  rooms,  turned  on  his 
bath,  and  got  out  of  his  wrinkled  clothes. 

His  man  had  opened  a  big  box  from 
Norworth's  and  had  laid  two  Norfolk 
suits,  one  of  gray  and  one  of  brown,  out 


134  A  THING  APART 

on  the  bed.  New  boots  stood  on  the  floor : 
gloves  and  a  Stetson  hat  were  on  a  chair. 
The  door  to  his  sleeping  porch  was  closed 
and  the  porch  darkened ;  he  was  probably 
supposed  to  be  out  there,  sleeping. 

He  rang  to  have  his  breakfast  sent  up ; 
somehow  he  didn't  want  to  risk  running 
into  his  father ;  he  wanted  to  have  time  to 
think  over  what  he  was  going  to  say  to 
him,  something  that  should  be  quietly  im- 
pressive and  dignified,  something  abso- 
lutely immune  from  anger.  An  astound- 
ing good  humor  invaded  him — his  first 
pride  of  control;  infinite  satisfaction 
seemed  circulating  in  his  blood. 

Judith's  laughter  floated  up  again. 

"She  had  some  good  reason  for  not  com- 
ing," he  counciled  himself  beatifically. 
"By  the  Gods  I'll  bet  I  never  let  go  of 
myself  again." 

After  his  bath  he  swallowed  his  break- 
fast hastily  and  then  got  into  the  new 
clothes — the  soft  collared  gray  shirt  and 


THEIR  PLAIN  TALK  135 

well-made  gray  suit,  the  high  boots  that 
were  the  same  maroon  color  as  his  old 
puttees,  and  the  straight-brimmed  Stetson 
hat.  He  felt  a  little  as  he  had  done  when 
he  first  tried  on  his  army  uniform — a  sort 
of  grim  realization  of  what  the  clothes 
signified — of  big  untried  things  that  were 
to  test  his  value  in  life.  For  he  had  vol- 
untarily, against  his  father's  advice, 
chosen  this  ranch  with  its  many  undevel- 
oped acres,  as  his  economic  responsibility 
— his  job. 

He  was  twisting  about  in  front  of  his 
mirror,  judicially  appraising  himself, 
when  he  heard  Judith's  voice  on  the 
stairs,  calling  down  to  some  one  that  she'd 
be  back  in  a  minute.  He  rushed  into  his 
study,  flung  open  the  curtains,  and  stuck 
his  head  out  the  hall  door,  calling  to  her 
cautiously. 

"Well,  you  lazy  thing,"  she  cried 
out,  appearing  at  the  other  end  of  the 
hall. 


136*  A  THING  APART 

He  beckoned  to  her  with  one  finger. 
As  she  came  toward  him  he  noticed  a  tiny 
edging  of  embroidery  beneath  her  white 
sport  skirt. 

"Say,  your  petticoat  shows." 
"I  know  it.    I  came  up  to  fix  it.    Billy 
just  told  me." 

"He  did?    Well,  I  like  his  nerve." 
'  *  How  about  your  own,  silly  ? ' '    She  was 
close  to  him  now,  but  he  still  stood  back 
of    the    door,    grinning,    only   his    head 
visible. 

"I  wait  until  I'm  engaged  to  a  girl  be- 
fore I  even  notice  such  things." 

"O-h,  such  restraint!"  She  glanced 
behind  her  and  seeing  no  intrusive  eyes, 
put  her  hand  up  and  patted  his  cheek; 
"You  old  ostrich — not  dressed  yet  and  it's 
nearly  luncheon  time.  I  dare  you  to  come 
out." 

"I  am  dressed;  I  dare  you  to  come  in." 

Without  hesitation  she  pushed  the  door 

open,  her  eyes  widening  approvingly  at 


THEIR  PLAIN  TALK  137 

sight  of  him.    She  brought  her  hands  to- 
\gether,  fingers  clasped,  and  surveyed  him 
rapturously. 

"Well,  how  do  you  like  me?  This  is 
my  ranch  outfit.  You'll  have  to  get  some 
rough  duds  when  you  come  to  visit  your 
— your  ranch." 

"You  mean  my  husband,"  she  cor- 
rected with  a  little  smile,  "I  never  knew 
any  one  so  scared  of  nice  words  as  you 
are.  But  I'm  wondering  if  what  I  hear  is 
true — that  ranchers  never  kiss  their 
wives." 

Whereupon  he  spent  a  blissful  five 
minutes  in  thorough  reparation. 

"Sweetheart,  why  didn't  you  come  last 
night?"  he  finally  asked  her.  They  were 
sitting  on  the  window-seat,  now,  with  their 
arms  about  each  other. 

"Oh,  that's  so!  Why,  of  all  things ;  you 
know  I  was  expecting  you  to  be  in  a  fear- 
ful temper.  What's  happened  to  you? — 
are  you  ill,  perhaps?" 


138  A  THING  APART 

He  thrilled  with  a  well-earned  pride ;  he 
felt  just  as  he  had  done  in  his  dream  when 
the  general  was  lauding  him  before  the 
assembled  armies. 

"Well,  honey,  I  made  up  my  mind  yes- 
terday morning  that  it's  about  time  I 
grew  up.  First  you  and  mother  lighting 
into  me,  and  then  dad;  he  reminded  me 
that  if  I'd  learned  to  control  myself  I'd 
probably  have  come  home  a  major  as  well 
as  Bill  Newland — yes,  I  know  it  sounded 
pretty  raw,  but  I  guess  it  was  true 
enough.  I  hadn't  exactly  looked  at  it  that 
way  before.  So — so  last  night  I  dis- 
ciplined myself  a  little.  I  waited  till 
after  one,  and  then  I  went  to  sleep  out 
there,  didn't  wake  up  till  half  an  hour 
ago.  Gosh,  I  was  stiff." 

"You  blessed  precious  darling,"  sol- 
emnly comforted  Judith,  the  delight  of 
her  penitence  making  him  wonder  how 
much  happier  he  could  get  before  some- 
thing inside  him  would  burst  and  kill  him. 


THEIR  PLAIN  TALK  139 

Though  Judith's  love  expressed  itself  so 
frankly,  almost  without  reserve,  there 
was  always  a  clean  pride  in  her  brown 
eyes  that  kept  him  strangely  humble.  It 
was  like  being  blinded  before  a  great 
white  light. 

"Aunt  Ellen  was  awake  when  I  got 
home,  and  of  course  I  had  to  pretend  to  go 
to  bed,"  she  explained  penitently,  "and  she 
talked  and  talked  and  talked!  Oh,  I'll 
never  forgive  myself,  Dane,  but  she  talked 
me  to  sleep.  Anyhow,  I  dreamed  about 
you  all  night  long." 

Dane  cupped  her  face  in  his  hands  and 
lowered  his  head  until  his  face  almost 
rested  on  hers. 

"Judith,  why  don't  you  tell  Aunt  Law- 
son  about  us?  I  must  say,  sweetheart,  I 
don't  get  you  a  little  bit  on  this  'week' 
stuff." 

Judith  gave  him  a  quick  kiss. 

"You  old  doubting  Dane.  I  don't  tell 
her,  because  I  want  to  get  everything  so 


140  A  THING  APART 

settled  and  sure  in  my  own  mind,  that  all 
of  her  ravings  won't  affect  me  at  all. 
Aunt  Ellen's  an  old  dear,  but  IVe  never 
known  her  to  change  her  opinions  in  all 
my  life ;  and  just  now  she's  having  a  fresh 
fit  of  rage  against  your  father  on  account 
of  Mrs.  Sangster — " 

"Well,  she  takes  good  care  not  to  show 
it,"  Dane  interposed  sullenly;  " she's  al- 
ways jollying  around  with  him." 

"Oh,  of  course  she  doesn't  quarrel  with 
him,  or  throw  things  at  him  in  his  own 
house;  but,  you  can't  always  tell  a  per- 
son's real  ideas  by  the  way  he  acts." 

"No,  I  should  say  you  can't;  why,  yes- 
terday morning,  I'd  have  thought  Mrs. 
Sangster  was  your  dearest  friend." 

Judith  answered  laughingly  though  she 
flushed  a  little. 

"I  knew  you  thought  I  was  a  horrid  cat ; 
your  face  was  too  funny  for  anything; 
and  I  just  loved  you  for  it!  Oh,  you're 
lots  nicer  than  you  think  you  are,  Dane. 


THEIR  PLAIN  TALK  141 

I  think  a  certain  amount  of  deceit  is  nec- 
essary— Aunt  Ellen  says  it  is  if  you 
expect  to  have  any  human  companionship 
at  all.  But  she  always  says,  'Decent  peo- 
ple tell  the  truth  to  some  one,  always,  they 
have  one  person  they  never  deceive,  no 
matter  what  happens  nor  what  they  do.' 
With  me,  you  see,  that  person  has  always 
been  Aunt  Ellen  until,  well,  about  three 
weeks  ago.  And  now,  it's  getting  to  be 
you." 

"And  with  me  it's  getting  to  be  you," 
he  repeated  slowly ;  it  promised  indeed  to 
be  a  splendid  doctrine  if  there  was  such 
comfort  in  telling  her  even  the  unpleasant 
things.  "Oh,  that  makes  me  think,  Ju- 
dith, last  night  mother  and — " 

"Oh,  my  de-ar!"  she  broke  in,  "have 
you  seen  your  mother?" 

* '  Not  this  morning ;  why  ?    What  in  the 
deuce  has  she  pulled  off,  now?" 
.  His  old  familiar  irritation  roughened 
his  voice.   Judith  puckered  her  lips  at  him 


142  A  THING  APART 

reprovingly  and  smoothed  his  father's 
frown  out  of  his  forehead. 

"It's  her  hair;  she's  bleached  it.  I 
mean  she's  had  Jennie  shampoo  all  the 
brown  off  it  and  it's  the  queerest  sort  of 
greenish  gray  you  can  imagine.  She 
came  down  to  breakfast,  late,  and  we  all 
just  gasped.  She  looks  so  different,  you 
know.  She's  got  it  drawn  up  straight, 
fluffed  a  little  but  not  much,  and  rolled 
into  a  soft  little  knot  on  the  back  of  her 
head;  and  such  a  ghastly  color;  she  does 
look  too  queer  for  anything." 

"I  should  think  she  might.  Great 
Scott,  how  she  does  go  at  things.  I  told 
her  last  night  she  looked  like  a  fright,  but 
I  didn't  expect — " 

"Is  that  the  way  you  acted,  when  I  did 
so  want  you  to  be  nicer  to  her?" 

He  grinned  contritely,  and  kissed  the 
bronzed  brown  curl  that  flaunted  its  pret- 
tiness  behind  her  ear. 

"Sweetheart,  I  followed  your  instruc- 


THEIK  PLAIN"  TALK  143 

tions  to  the  letter.  Yes,  on  the  square  I 
did.  And  you're  right,  Judith,  mother's 
a  mighty  fine  little  sport.  I  found  out 
that  much  last  night.  I  think  she  was 
glad  I  told  her  about  her  hair." 

"I  thought  the  minute  I  saw  her  that 
you  were  at  the  bottom  of  it,"  Judith  went 
on.  "Well,  she  came  in  trying  to  look 
unconcerned  and  in  that  funny  joky  way 
of  hers  said  something  about  it  being  the 
fashion  to  revert  to  nature.  We  all  just 
stared  at  her  for  a  minute.  Then  your 
father  began  making  fun,  of  course,  and 
laughed  and  laughed.  But  Mrs.  Sangster 
said"  (here  Judith  brought  a  honeyed 
sweetness  into  her  deep  young  voice), 
i  Oh,  Jane  dear,  really  I  adore  it ;  your  ears 
are  too  pretty  for  words — why  have  you 
hidden  them  all  this  time  ?  Don't  you  be- 
lieve a  word  that  brute  of  a  man  says. 
Why,  you  look  like  an  old  painting. '  And 
your  father  said  'old'  was  right,  and  then 
Aunt  Ellen  flared  up  at  him  and — " 


144  A  THING  APART 

"What  did  old  Keith  say?"  Dane  put 
in  curiously. 

"Oh,  he  was  lovely;  I  was  quite  thrilled. 
I  sat  beside  your  mother  or  I  couldn't 
have  heard.  Her  hand  was  lying  on  the 
table  by  her  plate  and  he  put  his  hand 
over  it  and  said  in  that  quiet  '  nothing 
matters  to  me'  way  of  his,  'When  it  re- 
covers it's  going  to  be  a  lot  better  this 
way,  Jane.  I  see  you've  still  got  that  lit- 
tle curl  back  of  your  ear. ' 

"You've  got  one  back  of  your  ear,  too," 
he  informed  Judith  seriously,  kissing  it 
again  to  prove  his  assertion.  "Do  you 
really  suppose  that  Newland  still  cares 
about  mother?" 

"Why,  of  course  he  does.  They  were 
engaged,  Aunt  Ellen  said,  when  she  fell 
so  desperately  in  love  with  your  father. 
Isn't  it  a  pity — "  she  stopped  abruptly 
with  a  confused  flush. 

"Go  ahead — say  it.  I'm  wondering 
myself.  But  I  know  there's  something 


THEIR  PLAIN  TALK  145 

wrong,  somehow.  I  can't  think  I've  got 
an  all-around  bounder  for  a  dad,"  he 
said,  his  eyes  miserable. 

"Oh,  Dane,  of  course  not!  Why  if 
there  weren't  fine  things  about  him  your 
mother  never  could  have  loved  him 
through  all  these  years." 

He  turned  to  her  eagerly,  tense  with 
the  desire  to  lighten  her  overly  tragic  at- 
titude against  his  father,  for  he  was 
acutely  conscious  that  her  prejudice  was 
unmeaningly  directed  against  himself. 

"Why,  surely  there  are,  Judith;  you 
know,  after  all,  dad's  not  so  different 
from  other  men,  now  is  he?" 

"You  mean  you  think  most  men  aren't 
true  to  their  wives  and — and  that  it  is 
right?" 

He  glowed  with  discomfort.  What 
nakedness  words  were  able  to  clothe  or 
to  expose.  He  felt  as  if  her  curiously 
intent  eyes  were  searching  to  his  very  soul 
for  a  conviction  that  was  not  there.  But 


146  A  THING  APART 

he  must  ward  off  her  doubts ;  to  do  so,  he 
assumed  a  reassuring  vehemence. 

" Right?  You  know  I  think  it's  dead 
wrong,  Judith.  But  well,  I  only  meant 
dad  isn't  the  only  man  who's  ever  done 
such  things,  but  we  just  don't  think  about 
them  because  they  don't  directly  concern 


us.' 


"I  think  about  them,  Dane.  And  I'm 
sure  most  girls  think  about  those  things 
a  great  deal  more  frankly  than  they  used 
to.  I  wish,  Dane, — don't  you  think  we 
might  talk  to  each  other — plainly ;  just — 
just  as  if  we  were  married?" 

Involuntarily,  his  arms  tightened  about 
her;  he  kissed  her,  muttering  in  a  con- 
fused way,  "Why  sure,  sweetheart." 
His  heart  leaped,  for  her  words  had 
quickened  his  pulses  strangely  and  her 
soft  lips  were  like  fuel  for  the  flame  of 
his  desire.  Her  eyes,  close  under  his, 
filled  with  a  startled  shyness  and  she 
tried  to  draw  away  from  him. 


THEIR  PLAIN  TALK  147 

"Oh,  Dane,  pi-ease."  But  he  only 
silenced  her  lips  with  kisses. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  love  you!  why 
shouldn't  I?  Do  you  think  I  can  go  on 
kissing  you  forever  and  not  want  you?" 

Exerting  all  her  fine  young  strength 
she  struggled  out  of  his  arms,  her  breasts 
counting  her  quickened  breaths.  Through 
the  riot  of  his  senses  he  was  slowly 
angered. 

"You  love  me  a  lot,  don't  you — if  I'm 
so  disagreeable  to  you  as  all  that?" 

She  leaned  toward  him  and  put  her  cool 
palms  against  his  cheeks,  but  he  sat  back, 
not  touching  her,  his  eyes  hurt  and 
resentful. 

"It's  just  because  ~you 're  not  disagree- 
able to  me  that — that  I  wanted  you  to 
stop,"  she  whispered,  the  last  word  end- 
ing in  the  soft  hush  of  a  soothing  kiss, 
while  his  arms  returned  to  their  heaven. 

"But,  sweetheart,  I  think  it  would 
really  kill  me  to  wait  for  you  very  long," 


148  A  THING  APART 

be  whispered  back,  adding  with  a  little 
laugh  because  of  the  crimson  that  stained 
her  cheeks.  "You  said  you  wanted  to 
talk  plainly." 

Her  eyes  met  his,  shy  but  unashamed. 

"I  don't  mind.  Do — do  you  suppose  it 
can  be  so — so  perfectly  wonderful  to 
every  one?" 

"It  doesn't  seem  possible,  does  it?"  h« 
said,  laughing  with  a  huge  tenderness. 

"But  do  you  know,  Dane,  I  can  under- 
stand how  this  wouldn't  last  unless  there's 
a  fine  big  love  between  two  people." 

"Yes,  oh,  yes,"  he  said  stupidly. 

Her  head  was  against  his  shoulder  and 
he  put  his  face  down  upon  her  bright  hair. 
Her  hair  was  soft  and  fresh  smelling  but 
it  held  no  perfume.  A  little  memory  of 
the  fragrance  in  Mrs.  Sangster's  hair 
passed  through  his  mind,  and  he  was  an- 
noyed at  the  intrusion  of  such  a  thought. 

"Dane,  have  you  known  so  very  many 
girls?"  Judith  asked  timidly.  "You 
know,  dear,  what  I  mean." 


THEER  PLAIN  TALK  149 

"Oh,  Judith,"  he  remonstrated,  "I 
thought  you  never  wanted  me  to  mention 
them.  I  can't  begin  to  tell  you  how  sorry 
I  am,  now." 

"Keally  sorry,  Dane?" 

"Yes." 

"Tr-uly,  Dane?" 

It  was  incredible  that  she  could  pull  the 
truth  from  him,  when  his  own  mind 
scarcely  knew  what  the  truth  was. 

"Well,  dear,  it  isn't  as  if  I'd  murdered 
somebody,  or  been  a  thief,  if  you  mean 
that?  But  I— well,  I  wish  I  hadn't, 
that's  all." 

"Y-es,  just  as  you  wouldn't  like  to 
think  of  my  having  had  the  same 
experiences?" 

This  suggestion  was  so  remote  that  it 
only  amused  him.  His  mother  had  said 
that  Judith  was  of  a  new  generation 
which  demanded  new  standards ;  but  this 
was  no  doubt  the  way  girls  always  re- 
sented such  things.  It  seemed  natural 
enough. 


150  A  THING  APART 

"It's  mighty  unfair,  all  right,"  he  con- 
ceded easily. 

Judith  drew  out  of  his  arms,  left  the 
window-seat,  and  walked  away  from  him. 
Taking  his  new  gauntlets  from  the  desk 
she  slowly  tried  them  on,  her  face  quiet 
with  thought,  while  he  lounged  back  in 
the  window-seat  and  watched  her.  Every- 
thing about  her  utterly  satisfied  him;  he 
liked  the  little  backward  tilt  to  her  head, 
and  her  girlish  stateliness.  Something 
indefinable  about  her  lent  him  a  sense  of 
surety  in  himself — a  sort  of  faith.  She 
came  back  to  him  smiling  a  little,  and 
stood  in  front  of  him.  He  reached  up  and 
took  her  hands  and  swung  them  lightly. 

"My  old  rancher,"  she  said  caressingly. 
He  bent  his  head  on  her  hands. 

"Oh,  Judith,  I  do  love  you  so — so  ter- 
ribly much,"  he  told  her  with  a  choking 
throat. 

She  kissed  the  top  of  his  head. 

"Enough  to  last  always,  I  wonder?" 


THEIR  PLAIN  TALK  151 

His  silence  was  like  a  rebuke. 

"Oh,  Dane,  I  know  we  can't  be  sure  of 
the  future,"  she  said  contritely,  "the  more 
I  try  to  convince  myself,  the  less  certain 
I  am.  But — but  let's  pledge  ourselves  to 
one  thing,  Dane:  that  we'll  always  be 
honest  with  each  other,  that  we'll  tell  each 
other  the  truth,  no  matter  what  that 
truth  is ;  and  that  we'll  both  try  our  hard- 
est to  accept  that  truth — justly." 

"Yes,  dear,"  he  said  and  took  both  her 
hands  again ;  he  only  knew  that  he  loved 
her  and  his  mind  held  no  room  for  reason- 
ing on  all  these  indefinite  matters.  Only 
his  great  desire  for  her  shone  in  his  eyes. 
She  smiled  a  little  wistfully. 

"I'll  tell  Aunt  Ellen  about  us,  to- 
night," she  said. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

WOMEN  AEE  THREE 

THAT  same  morning,  just  before  lunch- 
eon, he  "talked  to  his  father."  He  was 
just  changing  from  his  tennis  clothes  into 
fresh  flannels  after  a  brisk  game  in  which 
he  and  Mrs.  Sangster  had  beaten  Judith 
and  Bill  Newland  rather  badly.  Poor  Bill 
— no  wonder  he  couldn't  hit  a  ball;  Bill 
was  beginning  to  scent  the  situation,  and 
all  morning  Dane  had  been  conscious  of  a 
baffled  wondering  expression  on  Bill's 
hurt  good-natured  face.  Dane  was  keenly 
sorry  for  him ;  in  fact  it  seemed  to  Dane, 
that,  never  having  known  the  meaning  of 
sympathy,  he  was  suddenly  beginning  to 
feel  sorry  for  everybody. 

He  told  himself  he  was  in  a  good  mood 
152 


WOMEN  ARE  THREE  153 

to  speak  to  his  father ;  he  took  quiet  coun- 
cil with  himself  that  he  would  not  lose  his 
temper  did  the  heavens  fall ;  but  he  wished 
extremely  that  he  had  a  clearer  idea  of 
exactly  what  it  was  he  meant  to  say  to  his 
father.  Mr.  Elridge  was  dressing  in  the 
adjoining  rooms,  and  when  Dane  heard 
his  door  open,  a  lump  of  nervousness 
formed  in  his  chest,  but  he  swallowed  it 
fiercely  and  called  out: 

"Oh,  dad ;  come  in  a  minute,  won't  you  t 
I  want  to  see  you." 

Then  he  began  a  diligent  search  for 
something  in  his  desk  drawer,  while  his 
father  sauntered  in  casually  enough,  set- 
tled himself  in  the  big  chair  by  the  win- 
dow, yawned,  crossed  his  knees,  stuck  his 
thumbs  in  his  waistcoat  pockets,  and  re- 
marked in  his  agreeable  voice : 

"Well,  I  played  eighteen  holes  this 
morning;  you  didn't  go  out  at  all,  did 
you?" 

Dane's  quick  glance  had  shown  him  a 


A  THING  APART 

quizzical  wrinkle  at  the  ends  of  his 
father's  mouth — indicators  always  of  re- 
strained amusement.  "He  knows  what  I 
want — he  thinks  it's  a  huge  joke,"  Dane 
warned  himself. 

"No,  I  didn't  go  out,"  he  said  quietly; 
"we  played  tennis  a  while  but  it  was 
pretty  hot.  You  know,  dad,  I  admit  I 
made  an  ass  of  myself  yesterday  at  break- 
fast, but  on  the  square,  don't  you  think 
it's  due  mother  to  be  a  little  less — 
public?" 

"Say,  what's  the  matter  with  you 
lately?"  demanded  his  father,  in  an 
amused  but  heartily  curious  voice,  "per- 
haps you've  got  a  form  of  shell-shock." 

Dane,  devastating  the  neat  piles  of 
papers  like  a  pointer  after  a  rabbit,  con- 
tinued his  search  for  the  unknown, 
answering  the  first  thing  that  his  father's 
words  brought  to  his  mind,  wondering  as 
he  spoke,  if  perhaps  they  carried  truth. 

"I  guess  not;  but  maybe  a  week  or  two 


WOMEN  ARE  THREE  155 

like  some  of  the  ones  we  spent  along  the 
Meuse  would  have  made  you  see  a  few 
things  dif  f erentlyr  too. " 

"In  what  way?"  his  father's  voice  had 
emptied  of  amusement. 

"In  a  whole  lot  of  ways,  dad."  (His 
quick-given  words  now  led  him  hlindly 
on.)  "They'd  have  made  you  realize  for 
one  thing,  that  about  the  rottenest  thing 
there  is,  is  not  to  play  square  with  your — 
your  best  friends." 

"Stop  muddling  in  that  drawer!"  or- 
dered his  father  sharply.  Dane  obediently 
straightened  and  faced  him,  half  sitting 
back  on  his  desk,  his  hands  braced  on 
either  side  of  him.  "Just  what  do  you 
mean  by  that,  you  insolent  young  hound  ? ' ' 

"I  mean  mother,"  Dane  said,  and  the 
simple  words  seemed  to  visualize  them- 
selves in  the  air  between  the  two  men.  As 
his  father  stared  at  him  with  a  slowly 
growing  grin,  Dane  added,  "I  think  she's 
about  as  good  a  friend  as  you've  got." 


156  A  THING  APAET 

In  the  short  silence  that  followed,  his 
father  slowly  lighted  a  cigarette,  thought- 
fully intent  upon  the  operation.  His  gray 
eyes  narrowed  unpleasantly,  but  he  main- 
tained his  disconcerting  attitude  of  par- 
ental tolerance  for  a  presumptuous 
youngster. 

"Isn't  this  ardent  concern  for  your 
mother  rather  recent?" 

"Yes,"  said  Dane. 

There  was  another  uncomfortable 
pause. 

1  'Go  ahead;  get  it  out  of  your  system," 
encouraged  his  father  with  maddening 
tolerance. 

"You  know  exactly  what  I  mean,  dad. 
I  think  it's  time  you  cut  out  this  woman 
— all  women,  for  good." 

His  father  laughed  and  looked  at  him, 
humoringly.  Dane  felt  helplessly  cha- 
grined; the  situation  was  merely  a  trav- 
esty of  what  he  had  wanted  it  to  be. 

"It's  a  shame  to  discourage  your  little 


WOMEN"  ARE  THREE  157 

scheme,  my  boy;  but  you're  not  quite  a 
diplomat — yet.  I  must  advise  you,  in  all 
friendliness,  that  you're  not  qu-ite  man 
of  the  world  enough  to  tackle  such  big 
game.  Try  something  simpler  for  a  few 
years.  Too  many  boys  have  made  fools 
of  themselves  over  Mrs.  Sangster." 

Bright  red  climbed  into  Dane's  high 
cheek-bones,  and  quickly  receded,  leaving 
the  peculiar  yellowish  white  that  always 
companioned  his  soul-shaking  rages;  but 
he  controlled  himself  with  an  effort  so 
strong  that  his  muscles  felt  as  though 
they  were  tearing  his  body  apart.  Born 
of  this  mastery,  an  exultant  surety  in- 
vaded him,  which  found  expression  in  a 
spontaneous,  incredulous  laugh  at  being 
so  oddly  admitted  to  this  plane  of  famil- 
iarity with  his  father. 

"Do  you  mean  you  think  I'm  trying  to 
cut  you  out?"  he  demanded,  reverting  in 
his  astonishment  to  the  vernacular  of  his 
boyhood. 


158  A  THING  APART 

"I  question  the  good  taste  of  your  ex- 
pression," commented  Ms  father  with  a 
slightly  disconcerted  air,  as  he  slowly 
lifted  his  fastidiously  clothed  figure  from 
the  chair;  "but  I  can  assure  you,  you'll 
be  wise  to  take  my  advice. " 

"Why,  dad,"  all  subtlety  deserted 
Dane  in  his  consciousness  of  self-control, 
"why,  dad,  if  I  wanted  that  woman,  I 
wouldn't  have  to  beg  her  from  you;  I 
could  get  her,  to-day — now,  anytime.  You 
know  it."  This  was  a  truth  which  only 
bared  itself  to  him  at  that  moment,  but 
he  seemed  suddenly  to  have  been  aware  of 
it  for  some  time.  "I — well,  I  want  her 
about  as  much  as  I  do  smallpox.  Good 
lord,  I'm  not  the  only  one  in  the  family 
who  isn't  a  diplomat.  All  I  had  to  say 
was,  that  I  think  your  forcing  her  down 
mother's  throat  is  the  damned  rotten 
limit.  As  far  as  I'm  concerned,  I'm  go- 
ing to  marry  Judith  Kingston  next 
week." 


WOMEN  ARE  THREE  159 

Not  in  the  slightest  did  his  father's  face 
change  from  its  expression  of  cynically 
polite  attention.  He  stood,  just  as  he  had 
straightened  up  out  of  his  chair,  his  cig- 
arette poised  a  few  inches  from  his 
mouth,  and  let  a  slow  smile  grow  on  his 
lips. 

"Ah-h-ah,  so  that's  the  solution.  I  see. 
I  see.  W-ell,  it's  only  natural  you  should 
take  to  reform,  now.  I've  always  ex- 
pected it'd  break  out  in  you  some  day — 
being  your  mother's  son.  Under  the 
circumstances,  I  shall  overlook  your  un- 
called-for remarks,  and  e-er,  congratulate 
you.'1 

Without  further  comment  he  turned 
and  crossed  to  the  door,  a  little  curl  of 
cigarette  smoke  laughing  back  over  his 
shoulder. 

Dane  had  not  meant  to  speak  of  Judith. 
The  words  had  come  of  themselves.  Un- 
der his  father's  stoical  acceptance  of( 
them,  he  felt  exactly  as  he  had  used  to' 


160  A  THING  APART 

when  he  had  eagerly  displayed  some  great 
accomplishment  of  his  childhood  only  to 
see  it  shrivel  to  insignificance  in  the 
eyes  of  his  elders. 

"I  don't  want  your  congratulations," 
he  muttered  after  his  father's  departing 
back. 

"Very  well;  I  withdraw  them,"  said 
Mr.  Elridge  in  the  same  determinedly 
unruffled  way,  but  at  the  door  he  turned, 
to  remark  with  tolerant  derision : 

"In  a  little  while  now,  you'll  learn  that 
women  weren't  made  to  take  seriously, 
every  woman  is  three — what  she  says  and 
what  she  thinks  and  what  she  does,  and 
none  of  'em  ever  works  in  unison.  Your 
mother  chose  just  the  psychological  time, 
it  seems,  for  taking  you  into  the  purity 
squad.  I  wondered  last  night  what  that 
pretty  little  scene  meant." 

In  two  scissor  strides,  Dane  reached  the 
door  as  it  was  closing,  and  pinioned  his 
father's  arm  in  five  biting  fingers. 


WOMEN"  ARE  THREE  161 

Thrusting  his  face  close  up  to  the  older 
man's,  he  spat  out  fierce  but  unangered 
words : 

"Now  look  here,  dad,  you  know 
damned  well  and  good  that  mother 
doesn't  know  anything  about — about  what 
I  Ve  said  to  you.  Now  don 't  you — Ji-unh  ?" 

His  father's  lips  thinned  into  a  straight 
line  and  his  eyes  narrowed  with  their  old 
trick.  Into  the  taut  silence  of  their  meas- 
uring gaze  broke  the  sound  of  laughter, 
the  clear  pretty  laughter  of  Nathalie 
Sangster.  It  stopped  sharply,  like  the 
sudden  unechoing  silence  of  silvery  little 
bells.  Dane  turned  his  head,  still  grip- 
ping his  father's  arm.  At  the  head  of 
the  stairway  stood  Mrs.  Sangster  with 
her  arm  thrown  about  his  mother — two 
sculptured  bits  of  startled  realism. 

Another  face  grew  miraculously  on  his 
father's  shoulders — a  serious  thoughtful 
face  of  a  counselor.  Mr.  Elridge  had 
not  turned  at  sound  of  the  laughter. 


162  A  THING  APART 

Now  he  shook  his  head  slowly,  and  ut- 
tered words  that  any  onlooker  would  have 
taken  for  a  solemn  fatherly  admonition 
in  the  face  of  heated  argument.  But 
what  he  said  was: 

"Let  go  my  arm  and  get  back  into  that 
room  and  for  God's  sake  stay  there  till 
you  get  over  this  absurd  frenzy  for 
melodrama. " 

Dane  stepped  back  mechanically  and 
the  door  closed.  He  heard  his  father 
speaking  to  the  women  and  heard  them 
laugh.  He  was  still  sitting  on  the 
straight-backed  chair  just  inside  the  door, 
when  his  mother's  light  running  knock 
sounded  on  the  bedroom  door.  She  had 
gone  round  by  the  sleeping  porch  through 
his  father's  rooms,  so  that  her  coming 
would  be  unnoticed.  She  did  not  wait  for 
a  response  to  her  rap,  but  came  directly 
in  and  walked  quickly  to  him.  There  was 
no  pretense  about  her,  now;  she  was 
wholly  unconscious  of  herself. 


WOMEN  AEE  THREE  163 

"Dane,"  she  said  tensely,  "what  have 
you  said  to  your  father — what  have  you?" 

He  got  to  his  feet  and  put  his  hands 
under  her  elbows.  How  tiny  she  was ;  she 
reached  only  to  his  chest.  And  that  piti- 
able little  fluff  of  faded  hair!  But, 
touched  still  by  his  father's  ridicule,  he 
resented  her  forcing  herself  on  him,  just 
then.  She  seemed  to  get  this  resentment, 
intuitively. 

"You  don't  know — you  don't  under- 
stand how  much  you  mean  to  your 
father,"  she  hurried  on  in  explanation; 
"his  love  for  you  is  the — the  finest  thing 
he  has.  I  can't  bear  to  have  ill  feeling  be- 
tween you.  I  feel  so  terribly  guilt,  so 


—so—" 


"Well,  you  needn't,"  he  said  shortly. 
"If  you  must  know,  we  were  rowing  over 
that  confounded  ranch,  again.  What  in 
the  deuce  did  you  think?" 

She  wilted  with  relief,  a  painful  red 
dying  her  cheeks,  and  gasped  out,  rather 
like  a  naughty  child: 


164  A  THING  APAET 

"I — I  thought  perhaps  he  hadn't  liked 
your  being  away  all  day  yesterday  with 
Nathalie." 

"Hunh?"  His  surprise  was  sincere; 
he  had  supposed  she  had  surmised  the  real 
state  of  affairs. 

She  burst  into  almost  hysterical  laugh- 
ter, and  tumbled  down  into  a  limp  little 
heap  on  the  couch. 

"Oh,  it's  ridiculous,  I  know,"  she  con- 
fessed with  broken  breaths,  "but  he 
didn't  like  it ;  and  I  was  afraid  you  might 
have  lost  your  temper  and  told  him — I 
mean  said  something — oh,  dreadfully 


unwise.' 


"Losing  the  temper  is  a  lost  art  with 
me,"  he  declared  flamboyantly,  secretly 
embarrassed  by  the  memory  of  his  moth- 
er's confidences  of  the  night  before,  and 
striving  to  overcome  it.  He  went  into  his 
bedroom,  planted  himself  before  the  mir- 
ror, feet  wide-spread,  and  brushed  his  al- 
ready smooth  hair  vigorously. 

"You  certainly  didn't  lose  any  time  get- 


WOMEN  ARE  THREE  165 

ting  the  camouflage  off  your  hair,  did 
you?"  he  called  back. 

"No ;  but  I'd  no  idea  it  would  look  like 
this.  It's  terrible,  isn't  it?" 

"W-ell,  it  looks  like  it's  had  a  past,  all 
right." 

But  on  the  way  down-stairs  to  luncheon 
he  forced  himself  to  say : 

"Your  hair  isn't  going  to  be  bad;  even 
the  way  it  is,  it  makes  you  look  more  sort 
of — mothery."  The  awkward  word  stuck 
in  his  throat  like  a  thistle  burr  but  he 
jerked  it  out  valiantly,  wondering  at  the 
wild  flare  of  pleasure  it  brought  into  her 
face.  And  as  if  to  reward  him  for  his  ef- 
fort at  gentleness,  Judith  stopped  at  his 
side  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  caught  hia 
mother's  arm  through  hers  and  walked 
between  them  to  the  dining-room. 

"You  know,"  she  said  with  her  usual 
candor,  "I'm  beginning  to  feel  as  con- 
scious as  if  the  word  ' engaged'  were  writ- 
ten across  my  forehead;  don't  you  feel 
sort  of  conspicuous,  Dane?" 


166  A  THING  APART 

"No;  you  see  it's  written  across  my 
heart/'  he  said  stiffly. 

"Oh,  you  dear!"  appreciated  Judith, 
but  in  his  mother's  surprised  eyes,  were 
tears. 

Luncheon  that  day  was  a  very  gay  af- 
fair, almost  hilarious.  Every  one  seemed 
just  to  have  emerged  from  a  mental  bath, 
glowing  with  the  best  of  spirits.  Even 
staid  Keith  Newland  unbent  into  such  re- 
markable gaiety  that  he  threw  a  buttered 
muffin  across  the  table  at  Mrs.  Lawson 
in  return  for  one  of  her  sharp  speeches. 
Dane  had  never  felt  such  exuberant  ease 
of  spirit ;  it  melted  his  reticence  and  self- 
consciousness  completely  away,  even  to- 
ward his  father.  He  found  himself 
exchanging  anecdotes  with  Bill  Newland, 
and  arguing  about  tractors  with  Judith's 
uncle.  And  then  he  began  telling  them 
about  the  French  aviator  who  had  enter- 
tained them  at  dinner  the  night  before, 
his  face  alight  with  a  warm  enthusiasm 


WOMEN"  ABE  THREE  167 

that  seldom  visited  it.  In  the  course  of 
the  talk  that  followed,  all  of  the  events  of 
the  preceding  afternoon  were  covered, — 
the  luncheon,  their  dinner  at  the  hotel,  the 
dancing  afterward.  Mrs.  Sangster  re- 
lated most  of  it,  with  several  laughing 
allusions  to  Dane's  eagerness  to  be  rid  of 
her.  Her  recital  embarrassed  Dane  ex- 
ceedingly because  of  his  father,  whose 
eyes  he  was  careful  to  avoid,  and  he  won- 
dered at  the  queer  smile  which  teased  the 
corners  of  Judith's  mouth. 

He  only  looked  at  Mrs.  Sangster  once 
or  twice;  now  that  he  had  avowed  the 
truth  not  only  to  himself  but  to  his  father, 
her  calm  sure  gaze  was  extremely  dis- 
quieting. To  evade  these  personal  pitfalls, 
he  affected  a  new  and  flattering  interest 
in  his  mother's  wavering  little  discourse 
at  the  other  end  of  the  table.  Nothing 
that  his  mother  said  ever  possessed  both 
an  end  and  a  beginning.  She  was  talking 
now,  in  her  patchy  fashion,  about  the  color 


168  A  THING  APART 

harmonies  and  discords  that  were  evolving 
as  a  result  of  the  war ;  her  remarks  gath- 
ering unity  by  means  of  a  quietly  inserted 
word  here  and  there  from  Keith  Newland. 
Dane  tried  to  get  some  definite  idea  of 
what  she  meant,  but  failed;  it  was  no 
great  wonder,  he  thought,  that  she  should 
irritate  his  extremely  practical  father ;  he 
couldn't  imagine  Judith  chattering  away 
like  that. 

He  began  to  wonder  what  his  mother 
was  really  like  under  her  veneer  of 
individuality. 

After  luncheon  he  found  himself  being 
engineered  into  a  corner  by  Mrs.  Lawson, 
and  speculated  uncomfortably  as  to  what 
was  in  store  for  him.  He  had  a  keen  de- 
sire to  keep  that  forceful  lady  in  as  ami- 
able a  mood  as  possible  toward  him. 
Mrs.  Lawson  was  always  prompt  in  get- 
ting to  the  point. 

"Dane,"  she  said  abruptly,  "I  haven't 
seen  your  mother  look  so  happy  in  fifteen 


WOMEN  ARE  THREE  169 

years  and  I  think  you're  at  the  bottom  of 
it.  I  don't  know  what's  come  over  you, 
I'm  sure,  but  whatever  it  is,  it's  an  ex- 
ceedingly pleasant  change  and  I  hope  to 
heaven  it  continues." 

"Very  nice  of  you,  I'm  sure/'  said 
Dane  stiffly,  startled  into  a  semblance  of 
his  usual  manner. 

"Now  don't  try  to  squelch  me,  you 
young  wretch;  I've  spanked  you  many  a 
time  and  I'm  quite  capable  of  doing  it 
still."  She  laughed  comfortably  into  his 
disgruntled  face,  giving  his  arm  a  hearty 
squeeze,  the  nearest  approach  to  affection 
she  had  shown  him  since  he  was  a  little 
chap.  "I'm  so  glad  you're  beginning  to 
act  like  a  human  being  to  your  mother 
that  I  declare  I  feel  quite  fond  of  you.  I 
think  I'll  make  you  something.  Could 
you  use  a  dark  heavy  sweater  out  on  the 
ranch?" 

Dane,  who  loathed  sweaters,  accepted 
eagerly. 


170  A  THING  APART 

"I  sure  could,  all  right.  Why,  I'm  aw- 
fully obliged,  Aunt  Lawson." — Wouldn't 
Judith  like  to  hear  about  tMs?  His 
world  was  certainly  beginning  to  swing  in 
a  joyous  orbit. 

He  found  Judith  in  a  breeze  cooled  cor- 
ner of  the  east  porch,  sitting  back  in  the 
hammock,  doing  nothing.  That  in  itself 
was  unusual,  and  her  eyes  betrayed  traces 
of  very  recent  tears. 

"Why,  sweetheart,  what's  the  matter?" 
Having  kissed  a  pair  of  unwelcoming 
lips,  he  plumped  himself  down  on  a 
cushion  at  her  feet,  putting  his  hand  over 
the  toe  of  one  of  her  white  shoes. 

"Dane,  there's  just  no  use  thinking 
about  being  married  next  week.  I  can  not 
make  myself  feel  sure  it's  the  right  thing 
to  do." 

He  had  been  so  emotionally  fatigued  the 
last  few  days  that  he  did  not  sense  this 
fully. 


WOMEN"  ARE  THREE  171 

"I  don't  really  trust  you,  Dane;  I've 
tried  to  make  myself,  but  I  can't." 

"You're  not  serious,  Judith?"  his 
voice  was  thick  with  incredulity. 

"I  am,  I  am.  Oh,  Dane  how  could 
you?" 

His  keenest  sensation  was  exasperation. 

"My  God!    How  could  I  what?" 

" Not  tell  me." 

"Not  tell  you  whatl" 

"About  yesterday,  about  all  the  things 
you've  just  been  talking  about  at  lunch- 
eon. Why  didn't  you  tell  me  this  morn- 
ing when  we — we  pledged  ourselves 
always  to  tell  each  other  the  truth.  You 
knew  I  thought  you  were  kept  in  town 
yesterday  with  your  old  machinery  and 
windmills  and  things.  Why  didn't  you 
tell  me  you  just  stayed  because  that 
woman  wanted  you  to?" 

He  rocked  back  on  the  cushion,  embrac- 
ing his*  knees ;  his  face  so  wholly  astound- 
ing that  Judith's  eyes  softened  a  trifle. 


172  A  THING  APART 

He  was  surprised  to  find  that  the  explan- 
ations he  started  so  confidently  to  give 
should  sound,  even  to  his  own  ears,  start- 
lingly  inadequate. 

"Why,  there  wasn't  anything  to  tell, 
Judith;  there  wasn't  any  secret  about  it; 
the  lord  knows  I  wanted  to  come  home 
but  she — I  mean  things  just  kept  on  hap- 
pening to  keep  us." 

"Yes,"  said  Judith,  that  ring  of  omi- 
nous prejudice  in  her  bitter  young  voice, 
"she  wanted  to  stay  so  you  stayed;  it 
didn't  make  any  difference  that  you'd 
promised  me  to  come  out  early.  But  why 
didn't  you  tell  me  you  were  with  herT' 

They  argued  an  hour;  repeating  and 
repeating  the  same  absurd  accusations 
and  futile  answers. 

"I  didn't  think  of  it  at  all,"  he  kept 
telling  her,  "I  only  saw  you  that  little 
while  and  I  was  thinking  about  us.  Oh, 
Judith,  you  know  it!" 

And  she  reiterated  until  his  ears  rang 
with  it : 


WOMEN  ARE  THREE  173 

"But  you  could  have  come  home,  you 
could  have ;  it's  only  a  little  thing,  it  seems 
silly,  I  know,  but  if  a  pretty  woman  makes 
you  forget  the  little  things,  now,  what  will 
it  be  after  while?  No,  I've  got  to  have 
longer  to  decide. " 

At  the  end  of  an  hour  he  got  to  his  feet. 
He  knew  the  pain  of  it  was  yet  to  come ; 
now  he  felt  only  chilled  and  numb.  Re- 
solve slowly  strengthened  him. 

"No,  we  won't  take  any  longer  to  de- 
cide," he  told  her  quietly.  "With  all 
dad's  done  to — to  hurt  her,  mother's  got 
twice  as  much  trust  in  him  even  now  as 
you  have  in  me.  I've  told  you  I  can't 
wait  for  you  and  I  mean  it.  I'm  not  go- 
ing to  torture  myself  like  this  for  any 
three  months,  and  then  have  you  get  an- 
other absurd  reason  to  wait  longer.  If 
you  loved  me  the  way  I  do  you,  you 
wouldn't  be  wanting  to  wait  any  more 
than  I  do.  You're  either  going  to  marry 
me  next  week  or  not  at  all.  Now  I  mean 
it,  Judith,  I  mean  it." 


174  A  THING  APAET 

He  did  not  know  he  was  pleading  with 
her;  his  intention  was  to  be  stern  and 
commanding. 

"Then  it's  not  at  all,  Dane,"  she  an- 
swered instantly. 

"Oh,  Judith,  you  can't  mean  it." 

"Why,  Dane,  a  few  months  will  soon 
pass;  maybe,  maybe  Aunt  Ellen  would 
bring  me  out  to  the  ranch  for  a  visit.  But 
I  must  be  certain.  I'd  never  be  happy 
going  into  anything  the  way  I  feel  now. 
Don't  be  so  silly  and  tragic  about  it." 

He  was  stupefied  at  the  littleness  of 
her  understanding  of  him. 

"It's  not  at  all,  then,  is  it?  Well,  I'm 
through  with  you." 

He  strode  down  the  porch,  ignoring  her 
softly  called,  "Oh,  Dane,  don't  be  such  a 
goose,  come  back  here."  At  the  door  he 
turned  and  said: 

"Is  it  next  week,  then?"  Something 
in  his  voice  startled  her  smile  away,  but 
she  shook  her  head  slowly. 


WOMEN"  ABE  THREE  175 

On  his  swift  way  to  his  rooms  he  met 
Mrs.  Sangster  coming  down  the  stairs 
with  her  hands  full  of  gray  yarn.  Her 
eyes,  deep  and  blue  and  questioning, 
swept  his  white  pained  face,  but  thank 
God,  she  did  not  speak  to  him — she  only 
smiled.  He  stumbled  on  into  his  room 
and  flung  himself  full  length  on  his  bed. 

For  two  hours  he  lay  there,  trying  to 
convince  himself  that  he  would  stick  to 
what  he  had  said.  He  argued  logically 
that  Judith  was  petty  and  unjust  and 
narrow-minded;  he  reminded  himself 
that  his  love  had  swallowed  up  all  his  in- 
terest in  the  great  ranch,  a  responsibility 
he  owed  it  to  himself  to  meet  successfully. 
But  the  lure  of  his  day-dreams  refused  to 
be  banished.  He  had  woven  Judith  into 
every  thought  of  his  future — until  it  now 
seemed  that  all  the  other  things  were 
merely  incidental  threads  he  had  woven 
about  Judith.  The  ranch  had  come  to 
mean  only  the  interim  between  her  visits 


176  A  THING  APART 

to  him  and  his  trips  to  New  York,  for  he 
knew  she  would  never  be  contented  living 
in  the  West.  They  had  not  even  had  time 
to  discuss  it.  He  had  even  pictured  him- 
self riding  the  ten  miles  to  the  post-office 
every  day  for  her  letters — he  had  seen 
himself  being  handed  the  big  square  en- 
velopes addressed  in  her  generous  girlish 
scrawl.  Somehow,  the  letters  seemed  to 
be  the  last  straw.  He  could  never  give 
her  up! 

Perhaps  the  ranch  and  its  big  problems 
would  ease  his  waiting  for  her;  the  idea 
was  logical  and  comforting.  Of  course 
he  would  wait  for  her,  just  as  she  had 
known  he  would.  How  well  she  knew  her 
power  over  him. 

He  got  wearily  from  the  bed;  his  eyes 
smarted  and  he  was  damp  and  crumpled 
from  the  heat.  But  after  a  cold  shower 
and  fresh  linen  he  felt  a  new  man,  eager 
to  find  Judith  and  begin  the  pleasant 
mending  of  their  quarrel.  His  watch 


WOMEN  ARE  THREE  177 

amazed  him  with  its  rapid  covering  of 
time ;  he  wondered  what  Judith  had  been 
doing  those  three  hours. 

Before  going  down-stairs  he  flung  open 
the  east  curtains  to  let  the  breeze  through 
the  warm  room.  The  wide  windows 
looked  down  into  a  sheltered  pergola  cov- 
ered with  blossoming  brier  roses,  and 
there,  as  though  the  Fates  had  ordered 
the  stage  set  for  his  eyes  alone,  stood  Ju- 
dith and  Bill  Newland.  Newland's  arm 
was  closely  about  her  but  Dane  could  not 
see  his  face.  It  was  Judith's  upturned 
face  he  saw,  her  strong  serene  young  face, 
waiting  for  Newland's  kiss, — inviting  it. 

Paralyzed  by  the  shock  of  it,  Dane 
stood  with  sharply  indrawn  breath 
through  epochs  of  agony  while  the  young 
major's  head  bent  slowly  lower  and  Ju- 
dith's face  was  hidden. 

Again  the  world  emptied  of  all  worth 
of  living,  but  this  time  irrevocably,  with 
no  gates  left  open  for  hope's  returning. 


178  A  THING  APART 

Dane  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed, 
trembling,  his  mind  a  wallow  of  misery 
through  which  his  father's  mocking  words 
kept  darting  like  serpent  tongues, — "In 
a  little  while  you'll  learn  that  women 
weren't  made  to  take  seriously. . .  .not 
made  to  take  seriously. . .  .not  to  take 
seriously. ..." 

"Shut  up,"  he  whined  out  as  if  to  an 
audible  voice. 

Bending  his  head  into  his  coldly  moist 
hands  he  mumbled  broken  bits  of  pity  to 
himself,  "Oh,  God,  what '11 1  do  now?.  . . . 
I  can 't  stand  it ....  I  tell  you  I  can 't  stand 
it. ..  .it's  too  damned  hard.  . .  .too  damned 
hard...." 

The  slow  realization  of  his  whining 
voice  finally  shamed  him  into  silence. 

"This  is  a  hell  of  a  way  to  act,"  he  told 
himself  disgustedly,  meeting  his  face  in 
the  mirror  with  a  twisted  grin.  "I'm 
certainly  hard  hit  all  right,"  he  thought 
grimly.  "My  God,  what  a  week!" 


WOMEN  ARE  THREE  179 

Something  about  his  drawn  face  made 
him  think  of  his  mother. 

"It's  no  wonder  she's  a  queer  little 
nut,"  he  muttered  aloud,  and  uncon- 
sciously, in  that  time  that  he  sat  there, 
trying  to  gather  up  the  shreds  of  his 
shrinking  will  power,  he  came  very  close 
in  understanding  to  his  little  falsely  gay 
mother. 

He  decided  that  he  would  tell  his 
mother,  and  then  quietly  take  his  roadster 
and  run  into  New  York  without  seeing 
any  one.  The  instant  the  thought  struck 
him  he  started  from  the  room ;  his  mother 
would  be  on  the  south  lawn,  sketching. 

Yes,  there  she  was,  in  her  ridiculous 
hat  and  apron,  painting  her  Serenity. 
Her  easel  depicted  it  exactly  as  it  existed 
in  their  family,  thought  Dane,  an  up- 
heaval of  color  as  dizzying  as  a  rough 
sea.  When  he  got  near  enough  for  her 
to  see  his  face  she  stood  up,  startled, 
stretching  out  both  her  hands;  calling  to 


180  A  THING  APART 

him  in  a  tender  mothering  voice  she  had 
been  so  long  cheated  of  using : 

"Oh,  honey,  what  is  it?" 

He  took  her  hands  tight  in  his  and  told 
her. 

"Mother,  it's  all  up  between  Judith  and 
me.  I'm  going  in  town  till  she  leaves,  I'll 
get  ready  to  go  west." 

She  stared  up  at  him,  catching  her  lips 
in  and  out  of  her  teeth,  her  eyes  reflect- 
ing the  pain  in  his  own.  Then  she  said 
tensely : 

"Oh,  Dane,  there's  a  mistake,  some- 
where. Judith  loves  you. " 

He  laughed.    She  shrank,  hearing  it. 

"Yes,  she  loves  me!"  he  sneered.  "I'll 
leave  a  note  on  my  desk;  I  wish  you'd 
give  it  to  her.  Good-by." 

She  clung  to  his  hands. 

"You  couldn't  tell  me,  dear?"  she 
urged  timidly. 

"No,"  he  said  shortly.  "Not  now,  I 
can't.  Only,  well — I  wish  you  wouldn't 


WOMEN  ARE  THREE  181 

talk  me  over  with  her  if  you  don't  mind. 
Don't  try  to  fix  it.  Don't  discuss  it. 
And  say,  I'll  be  at  the  club — no,  I  won't 
either,  don't  want  to  see  anybody;  I'll  go 
to  the  McAlpin.  Phone  me  there  when 
this  mob's  cleared  out,  will  you!" 

"Oh  yes,  yes,  dear.  Oh,  I — I  know  I 
can't  help  you  but — " 

"But  you  would  if  you  could,"  he  in- 
terrupted a  little  sharply.  "I  know  you 
would.  But  I've  got  to  swallow  this  by 
myself. ' ' 

He  gave  a  wild  burst  of  laughter. 
"Love  plays  the  devil  with  you  and  me, 
doesn't  he;  but  cheer-oh,  we'll  best  him 
yet" 

w 

He  kissed  her  roughly  and  rushed  off, 
vaguely  conscious  of  her  repeating  in  a 
distressed  voice,  something  about  being 
certain  there  was  a  mistake,  somewhere. 

Back  in  his  rooms  he  wrote  Judith  a 
short  note  while  a  servant  put  his  things 
in  a  bag.  He  did  not  hesitate  over  it. 


182  A  THING  APAET 

"  Judith: 

"Just  having  seen  you  in  the  pergola 
with  Bill,  I  realize  you  are  not  crushed 
with  the  pain  of  throwing  me  over.  I 
hope  you'll  get  as  much  kick  out  of  poor 
old  Bill  as  you  have  out  of  torturing  me, 

you  little ,  fill  that  in  yourself ; 

you  know  what  you  are. 

"Dane." 

When  he  went  out  for  his  car,  he  looked 
out  over  the  lawn  toward  his  mother.  She 
was  sitting  on  the  stool  before  her  easel, 
limp  shouldered,  her  hands  in  her  lap. 
She  looked  like  a  wilted  toadstool.  Dane 's 
throat  choked.  He  ran  lightly  across  the 
grass,  startling  her  into  a  little  cry  when 
he  landed  at  her  side  and  bent  over  her, 
smothering  her,  hat  and  all,  in  his  rough 
arms. 

"Cheer-oh!  little  old  mother,"  he  mut- 
tered quickly,  and  ran  on  toward  the 
garages,  his  heart  a  little  less  heavy  for 
having  left  that  healing  tenderness  in 
her  eyes. 


CHAPTER  IX 

BURNING  HIS  BRIDGES 

AT  the  McAlpin  Dane  found  a  certain 
seclusion  among  all  the  strange  indiffer- 
ent faces.  He  had  never  cared  about  peo- 
ple; had  never  taken  any  enjoyment 
watching  them;  had  never  felt  the  least 
curiosity  about  their  lives,  or  what  they 
thought  or  said  or  did.  But  to-night 
lounging  morosely  in  a  lobby  chair,  he  let 
each  stranger  drift  across  his  conscious- 
ness with  some  speculation  as  to  where 
he  lived,  or  whom  he  loved,  or  who  his 
companion  was,  or  whom  he  might  be  de- 
ceiving. He  saw  something  of  Judith  or 
his  mother  or  Mrs.  Sangster  in  every 
woman  who  passed.  But  in  very  few  of 
the  men  did  he  find  the  ironical  unsympa- 
thetic type  of  his  father. 
183 


184  A  THING  APAET 

In  spite  of  his  efforts,  he  could  not  tire 
his  mind;  it  swept  back  to  Judith  with 
merciless  insistence.  He  spent  a  miser- 
able night  tossing  about  and  dreaming 
restlessly.  Once  he  dreamed  of  having 
Judith  in  his  arms,  but  just  as  his  dream 
rose  to  heart-breaking  ecstasy,  the  lips 
that  answered  his  were  Mrs.  Sangster's, 
and  he  woke  with  the  fragrance  of  her 
pale  golden  hair  in  his  nostrils.  He  got 
up  then  and  sat  by  the  window  until  morn- 
ing, smoking  countless  cigarettes.  His 
thoughts  strayed  undirected  to  Mrs. 
Sangster,  only  making  his  pain  the 
sharper  when  they  returned  to  disillu- 
sioned reality. 

And  he  thought  of  his  mother ;  she  too 
was  probably  lying  awake,  wondering 
about  him.  The  thought  brought  him  a 
certain  comfort  for  it  filled  his  tortured 
heart  with  a  sympathy  that  was  in  itself, 
healing.  Oddly  enough,  he  felt  no  bitter- 
ness against  young  Newland,  and  no 


BTTKNTKTG  HIS  BRIDGES  185 

hatred  against  Judith.  His  mind  cast 
aside  every  emotion  but  the  pain  of  Ju- 
dith's not  loving  him. 

He  remembered  what  his  mother  had 
said  about  the  helplessness  of  a  great  love. 

"God,  I  wish  I  could  cry/'  he  muttered1 
once,  feeling  that  tears  might  ease  the 
burning  in  his  brain. 

He  went  early  to  breakfast.  "At  least 
I  can  eat,"  he  told  himself  with  grim 
humor.  His  hunger  seemed  almost 
insatiable. 

After  breakfast  he  wrote  notes  to  Ju- 
dith for  two  hours,  well  knowing  that  he 
would  destroy  them  all,  but  he  wrote  at 
least  a  dozen — bitter  ones,  insulting  ones, 
and  dignifiedly  magnanimous  ones.  It 
helped  him  gather  courage  against  his 
pain  to  put  his  thoughts  on  paper,  to  see 
in  black  and  white  the  exact  extent  of  her 
frailty.  Then  he  burnt  them  all  in  the 
bathtub,  making  a  nasty  mess  of  it;  but 
destroying  at  the  same  time  all  the  cour- 


186  A  THING  APART 

age  he  had  gained  in  writing  them.  It 
was  no  use — he  wanted  Judith — wanted 
her — wanted  her  I  And  the  picture  of  her 
upturned  face  waiting  for  Newland's  kiss 
would  not  veil  itself  from  his  vision. 

A  boy  brought  him  a  note  from  his 
mother.  She  must  have  sent  Thomas 
down  to  the  late  train  to  mail  it.  She 
was  a  good  little  scout.  It  told  him  that 
the  Lawsons  and  Judith  were  going  to 
their  Long  Island  house  that  afternoon, 
that  young  Newland  was  going  to  the 
Whitelaws'  for  the  rest  of  his  furlough, 
and  that  his  father  was  driving  Mrs. 
Sangster  in  to  her  town  apartment  that 
morning.  "I  just  told  them,  dear,"  she 
wrote,  "that  some  western  men  you  knew 
in  France  were  at  the  McAlpin  and  tele- 
phoned you,  and  you  didn't  want  to  miss 
seeing  them.  Your  father  told  me  you  had 
mentioned  your  engagement,  so  I  merely 
said  I  thought  you  had  broken  it  off  for 
a  little  while.  We  didn't  discuss  it.  Ju- 


BURNING  HIS  BRIDGES  187 

dith  said  very  little;  I'll  tell  you  about  it 
when  you  come.  But  I'm  sure,  dear,  it 
will  all  be  all  right.  I'm  praying  that  it 
will  with  all  my  heart.  Bless  you,  dear. 
Mother." 

He  was  standing  there  with  the  note 
still  opened  in  his  hands,  when  the  tele- 
phone rang  sharply.  Unaccountable  emo- 
tion surged  over  him  as  Mrs.  Sangster's 
cool  fresh  voice  soothed  his  ears. 

" Hello ;  it's  time  you  got  up.  Come  out 
and  feed  me  something  cold." 

"Where's  dad?  Can't  he  find  you  a 
mint  julep?" 

"He's  busy.  Besides,  you  are  the  only 
man  I  know  whose  coldness  never,  ne-ver 
melts. ' '  Her  laugh  was  like  the  fragrance 
in  her  hair,  teasing,  alluring. 

"W-ell,  I  oughtn't  to  waste  the  time 
but — ;  where '11  you  be?" 

"Brute!  I'm  here  at  the.  Waldorf  so 
I'll  wait  in  the  alley.  Don't  be  cross, 
though,  it's  so  hot!" 


188  A  THING  APART 

He  hung  up,  stretched  himself  care- 
lessly with  the  feeling  that  curious  eyes 
were  watching  him,  and  walked  about  the 
room,  cutting  off  a  tiny  tendril  of  con- 
sciousness which  was  whispering,  "  You're 
glad  she's  here — you're  glad,"  by  the 
gruff  admission,  "Well,  I've  got  to  do 
something  to  get  out  of  this  muck." 

Walking  up  Thirty-fourth  Street,  he 
found  himself  wondering  how  she  would 
be  dressed  and  how  she  would  look.  It 
was  pleasant  to  put  Judith  even  so  little 
aside. 

Mrs.  Sangster  was  as  lovely  as  always, 
dressed  in  the  coolest  of  light  green  or- 
gandy. She  actually  looked  so  much  like 
a  flower  that  he  had  all  he  could  do  to 
keep  from  being  an  ass  and  telling  her  so. 

"What  a  satisfactory  party  it  must 
have  been  to  make  you  look  like  this," 
she  marveled,  her  cool  hand  leaving  his, 
lingeringly.  "Why,  my  dear  man,  you 
look  the  very  ghost  of  dissipation." 


BURNING  HIS  BRIDGES  189 

His  lips  thinned  into  a  wry  grin. 

"I'll  say  it  was  some  party."  The 
scent  of  her  hair  recalled  his  dream.  It 
embarrassed  him.  "I'd  a  note  from 
mother,"  he  plunged  ahead  hastily, 
something  he  could  not  control  impelling 
him  to  ask:  "Did  Bill  and  Judith  come  in 
with  you?" 

"Oh,  that  Judith,"  she  laughed,  taking 
his  arm,  her  face  lighted  with  the  pleasure 
of  fresh  gossip.  "I  think  she  and  Billy 
must  have  had  a  fearful  row  last  evening 
— you  know  Judith's  really  a  dreadful 
flirt;  I'm  sure  she  broke  a  dozen  hearts 
last  winter.  Now  I  guess  it's  Billy's 
turn.  Anyhow,  he  looked  as  badly  as  you 
do  this  morning  and  suddenly  discovered 
that  he'd  promised  to  visit  the  Whitelaws. 
But  he  recovered  a  little  after  breakfast 
— men  will,  you  know;  and  Judith  was 
really  awfully  sweet  to  him.  So  perhaps 
they  made  it  up.  Lover's  quarrels,  awful 
— aren't  they?" 


190  A  THING  APART 

His  heart  gave  a  sickening  thud  ol 
assent. 

"How  in  the  deuce  should  I  know?'* 

"Well,  you'll  know  some  day.  you 
cynic,"  she  replied  ominously. 

His  mind  was  so  twisted  over  the  puz- 
zle of  Judith  and  Bill  that  he  blindly 
ignored  this. 

"Where — where  are  we  going?"  he 
stammered. 

"First  for  ice-cream — gobs  of  it;  and 
then  for  a  green  parasol." 

Her  mood  embraced  him.  There  was 
laughter  under  everything  she  said,  and 
in  some  intangible  way  she  made  him  feel 
older  than  did  any  one  else,  a  person  of 
consequence. 

They  had  ice-cream  at  Henri's,  and 
they  bought  a  light  green  parasol  of  his 
choosing  after  exploring  a  half-dozen 
ultra  little  shops,  and  they  strolled  idly 
through  a  gallery  of  etchings  they  hap- 
pened to  be  passing.  Mrs.  Sangster 
guided  their  conversation  into  channels 


BURNING  HIS  BRIDGES  191 

\ 

far  removed  from  personalities.  He  was 
surprised  at  her  reach  of  knowledge  and 
willingly  entertained  by  her  skilfully 
told  reminiscences  of  foreign  cities  and 
people  she  had  known  abroad.  There 
was  always  a  pleasant  vein  of  self-directed 
humor  under  her  chatter. 

They  took  a  victoria  and  while  they 
were  jogging  slowly  along  in  the  fairly 
comfortable  traffic,  she  said  idly: 

"We're  going  to  have  luncheon  to- 
gether, aren't  we?" 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  it;  but  I'll  take 
you,  if  you  like.  Isn't  your  appetite  a 
little  abnormal?" 

"I  adore  to  eat,"  she  confessed,  laugh- 
ing, "and  it's  nicer  to  talk  with  nice  cool 
iced  food  in  front  of  you.  I  want  so  to 
hear  about  your  ranch — all  about  it;  I 
never  really  have,  you  know.  The  West 
fascinates  me;  if  I  weren't  a  coward  I'd 
buy  a  little  tiny  ranch  myself.  I  know 
you've  been  wondering  why  I  seem  deter- 
mined to  kidnap  you,  haven't  you?" 


192  A  THING  APAET 

"Oh,  I  don't  know;  I  realize  I'm  an 
unusually  attractive  fellow." 

"Well,  you're  not,  you  conceited  thing. 
It's  because  you  want  to  go  way  out  there 
and  get  right  into  the  bigness  and  rough- 
ness of  things  and  actually  be  a  part  of  it, 
instead  of  spending  your  life  in  a  little 
steam-heated  hole  called  an  office." 

Her  words  called  up  a  quick  response ; 
he  saw  great  brown  hills  and  cotton- 
wooded  creeks  and  long,  long  roads,  in  a 
sudden  panoramic  vision.  Something 
like  excitement  thrilled  him.  Oh,  if  he 
could  only  have  taken  Judith  out  there ! 

"Where  do  the  cattle  drink  way  out  in 
those  dry  hills'?"  she  was  asking. 

He  brought  himself  back  with  a  jerk; 
she  must  have  been  talking  a  long  time, 
unheard. 

"Oh,  there  are  springs  and  water-holes. 
But  that's  what  I  want  to  do.  I've  got  a 
wonderful  natural  reservoir  on  my  land 
and  I'm  going  to  put  a  dam — " 


BURNING  HIS  BRIDGES  193 

With  such  a  flattering  listener  he  could 
not  help  but  talk.  All  through  luncheon 
he  kept  on  talking,  led  fleetingly  by  her 
apt  questions.  And  when  he  left  her  it 
was  with  the  promise  to  have  dinner  with 
her  that  night  at  her  apartment  on  lower 
Riverside  Drive.  He  was  so  filled  with 
enthusiasm  that  he  spent  all  the  hot  after- 
noon in  a  wholesale  house  looking  at  wire 
fencings. 

But  back  at  the  hotel  dressing  for  din- 
ner he  began  dreading  to  see  her  again. 
So  subtle  was  her  aberration  from  the 
realms  of  social  discretion  that  he  was  con- 
stantly aware  of  the  extreme  delicacy  of 
the  situation,  and  fearful  lest  she  detect 
his  youthful  perplexity. 

He  was  walking  in  new  paths,  wholly 
untutored  in  their  subtleties,  not  knowing 
just  what  pace  to  strike  with  this  beauti- 
ful woman. 

But,  weakened  with  his  desire  and  long- 
ing for  Judith,  it  was  with  a  certain  eager- 


194  A  THING  APART 

ness — a  hunger  for  forgetfulness,  that  he 
entered  her  small  charming  apartment. 

Clarissa,  the  blackest  woman  he  had 
ever  seen,  served  them  a  dinner  that  was 
in  itself  oblivion  of  all  things  else,  though 
he  found  himself  frequently  picturing  his 
father  sitting  where  he  sat,  listening  to 
that  same  soft  pretty  laughter. 

After  dinner,  lying  comfortably 
stretched  out  on  the  great  blue  tufted  di- 
van, Dane  swore  to  himself  that  he  should 
certainly  kiss  her  that  night . . .  perhaps .  . . 

But  still,  it  was  only  his  eyes  and 
tongue  that  dared  make  bold.  It  amused 
him  to  feel  that  his  apparent  indifference 
piqued  her,  but  each  time  that  the  tantal- 
izing question  in  her  blue  eyes  almost 
goaded  him  into  obeying  his  quickened 
pulses,  some  unwelcome  thought  of  Ju- 
dith intruded  itself  and  held  him  silent, 
often  awkwardly  so.  She  sat  in  a  low 
chair,  facing  him;  her  quick  beautiful 
hands  busy  with  gray  knitting  that  she 


BURNING  HIS  BRIDGES  195 

told  him  was  to  be  a  sweater  for  him  to 
wear  on  the  ranch.  Her  clothes  were  al- 
ways as  much  a  part  of  her  as  the  petals 
of  a  blossom,  and  to-night  seemed  un- 
usually so.  She  wore  a  dress  of  palest 
pink  chiffon,  untrimmed  but  for  the 
drooping  fragrant  roses  at  her  belt.  He 
had  wanted  to  touch  her  all  the  evening, 
but  it  was  as  though  one  single  hypnotic 
thread  failed  to  vibrate  before  the  mag- 
net of  her  charm.  They  had  been  silent 
for  a  little  while,  his  eyes  bold  with  pleas- 
ure of  looking  upon  her.  He  thought  of 
what  she  had  told  him  about  her  baby 
dying. 

"Say,  on  the  square,  have  you  had  a 
baby?"  he  blurted  out. 

"What?  Why — why,  yes,  of  course. 
What  on  earth  brought  that  into  your 
queer  head?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know;  you  don't  look  the 
part,  somehow.  What  was  its  name?" 

"Nathalie,"  she  said  shortly,  after  a 


196  A  THING  APART 

tiny  pause  as  if  she  had  considered  spar- 
ring with  him. 
"O-oh,aglrLM 

"Yes." 

"I  wonder,"  he  sent  little  rings  of 
smoke  curling  upward  like  lazy  pictures 
of  his  reflections,  "I  wonder  what  you'd 
be  like  if  she  hadn't  died." 

"Let's  wonder  about  something  else — 
please,"  she  said  gently.  "You'll  have  to 
put  up  with  me  the  way  I  am.  Why  spec- 
ulate on  the  impossible?" 

"Oh,  I  just  thought  that  since  you  seem 
to  have  taken  such  a  fancy  to  me,  I'd  like 
to  know  a  little  more  about  you." 

Her  laughter  was  genuine.  He  found 
it  impossible  either  to  irritate  or  discon- 
cert her. 

"The  excellence  of  your  conceit  de- 
mands respect;  all  men  are  conceited  of 
course,  but  you  are  absolutely  a  genius." 

"Inherited,  you  see.  I  get  it  from  dad. 
It's  going  to  be  the  worst  jolt  dad's  ever 


BURNING  HIS  BRIDGES  197 

had,  when  he  realizes  I've  cut  him  out 
with  you." 

"I  think,"  she  said,  suddenly  serious, 
her  voice  rather  more  wistful  than  pained, 
"I  think  you  really  misunderstand  the 
friendship  between  your  father  and  me." 

"Aw,  why  do  you  do  it  I"  he  drawled 
rudely.  "You  know  you  don't  fool  me. 
What's  the  use?" 

Slowly  she  raised  her  eyes,  those  blue 
beautiful  eyes  so  deep  with  their  knowl- 
edge of  men.  He  felt  as  though  she  were 
fathoming  the  depths  of  his  untutored 
youthfulness  with  her  unwavering  gaze, 
but  he  did  not  flinch  from  it. 

"Are  you  then, — so  stupid?  It  is  more 
than  two  years  and  a  half  now,  that  your 
father  has  been, — w-ell,  quite  frankly,  in- 
terested in  me.  Knowing  him,  do  you  not 
think  that  is  rather  a  long  time  for  attain- 
ment to  endure?" 

Hot  blood  burnt  his  cheeks,  his  throat, 
his  forehead.  The  woman  was  telling  him 


198  A  THING  APART 

the  truth.  Still  watching  him  with  care- 
ful eyes,  her  voice  took  on  a  tone  that 
came  oddly  from  that  scarlet  luring 
mouth. 

"Your  mother  is  the  only  woman  I  know 
who  does  not  hate  me.  She  will  probably 
never  know  it  but — I  have  never  betrayed 
her  friendship." 

Dane  whipped  himself  feverishly  from 
a  bog  of  sentiment  that  threatened  alarm- 
ingly to  suck  him  down  into  the  ruin  of 
actual  tears,  and  said  with  an  insolent 
manner  of  unbelief : 

"Being  her  son  then,  I  take  it  I'm  fair- 
ly safe." 

"The  way  you  hate  me  is  positively  fas- 
cinating," she  said  wonderingly. 

He  grinned,  and  reconnoitered. 

"If  you  knew  what  I'm  thinking  right 
now,  you'd  not  be  so  sure  I  hate  you." 

"Yes,  I  should  too.  But  you've  got  to 
get  over  it,  young  man.  I  can't  have  peo- 
ple I  like,  hating  me."  She  dismissed 


BURNING  HIS  BRIDGES  199 

personalities  by  going  to  the  piano  and 
playing,  with  a  careless  charm,  for  per- 
haps half  an  hour.  Then  when  she  came 
back  to  her  knitting,  he  found  that  she 
was  soon  listening  in  her  luring  way,  to 
his  tireless  discourses  on  irrigation,  reser- 
voirs and  alfalfa  possibilities.  After  a 
time  she  held  up  the  sweater  and  sur- 
veyed it  approvingly. 

"  Now  get  up  and  try  this  on.  I  want  to 
see  about  the  sleeves." 

He  stood  up  obediently  and  took  off  his 
coat. 

"I've  got  a  box  of  these  things,  already, 
you  know." 

"Yes,  beast.  But  this  is  the  one  you'll 
wear  because  it's  the  best,  now  isn't  if?" 

"It  looks  pretty  fair,"  he  conceded 
stingily,  and  bending  over,  let  her  slip  it 
over  his  head.  Then,  as  she  stood  in  front 
of  him,  patting  and  pulling  it  into  place, 
he  kissed  her.  It  was  an  exceedingly  sim- 
ple matter.  He  just  dropped  his  arms 


200  A  THING  APART 

about  her  and  let  his  lips  lie  long  against 
the  side  of  her  soft  throat,  the  tantalizing 
fragrance  of  her  hair  sweet  in  his  nos- 
trils. He  closed  his  eyes  and  tried  to  let 
the  pleasure  of  his  senses  take  full  sway 
of  him,  but  that  same  insistent  memory, 
that  thin  stinging  contrast  with  love's 
ecstasy  of  passion,  was  too  strong. 

He  straightened  with  a  jerk,  feeling 
horribly  uncouth  in  the  situation,  his  face 
furiously  flushed. 

" First  kiss  from  the  enemy,"  she  mur- 
mured whimsically,  "not  a  success."  In 
spite  of  himself,  he  laughed,  and  she  went 
on  unconcernedly  examining  the  fit  of  the 
sweater.  He  did  not  kiss  her  again;  the 
dulling  of  his  quick  passion  left  too  deep 
a  longing  for  Judith.  He  had  allowed 
himself  to  dream  of  Judith  with  such 
surety  that  now  his  cheated  love  rebelled 
against  the  comfort  of  bare  passion. 

He  peeled  the  sweater  off  and  handed 
it  to  her,  getting  hastily  into  his  coat. 


BTJENING  HIS  BEIDGES  201 

"I've  got  to  go  now,"  lie  said  stiffly. 

"Y-es?  It  isn't  late."  Her  manner 
was  careless  but  her  eyes  were  keen. 

"I  know  it  isn't,  but  I'm  dog  tired  and 
I've  got  an  early  date  in  the  morning." 

She  came  and  stood  close  to  him,  laying 
her  hand  lightly  on  his  arm. 

"I  know  something  has  hurt  you.  I 
wish  I  could  help,"  she  said. 

Her  voice  was  so  sweet  that  acute  fear 
clutched  him  lest  he  should  blurt  every- 
thing out  and  perhaps  weep  on  her  snowy 
shoulder.  She  seemed,  without  moving, 
to  be  coming  closer  to  him.  He  stared 
into  her  eyes,  fascinated. 

"  You  want  to  like  me ;  what  is  it  ?"  she 
urged. 

"I  do  like  you,"  he  blurted,  emphatic 
with  the  startling  truth  of  it. 

He  yielded  to  the  command  in  her  eyes 
as  one  sinks  from  troubled  wakefulness 
into  excited  dreaming,  and  took  her  madly 
into  his  hungry  young  arms.  Bending 


202  A  THING  APART 

her  head  back  roughly  to  kiss  her  lips,  his 
eyes  burned  for  a  swift  instant  into  her 
half  closed  ones.  Just  so,  in  such  another 
moment,  he  had  looked  into  Judith's  eyes 
on  that  day  before  they  quarreled.  And 
in  their  shy  unafraid  brown  depths  had 
been  a  blinding  light  whose  memory  made 
the  thing  he  saw  in  this  woman *s  triumph- 
ant drowsy  gaze,  quickly  and  keenly  re- 
volting to  him.  With  staggering  realisa- 
tion he  remembered  that  Judith's  face 
had  been  empty  of  that  light  when  he  had 
seen  her  waiting  for  Newland's  hiss. 
Trust,  overpowing,  inexplicable,  rushed 
over  him.  Judith  loved  him;  in  some 
queer  way  she  had  not  been  false  to  him. 
Swept  so  suddenly  and  violently  clean  of 
his  desire  for  the  woman  in  his  arms,  he 
almost  dropped  her,  so  that  she  stumbled 
back,  her  eyes  lit  sharply  with  angered 
surprise.  He  stared  at  her,  open  lipped, 
filled  with  a  dumb  sick  wonder  of  him- 
self. Then,  at  the  absolute  stupefaction 


BURNING  HIS  BRIDGES  203 

that  dulled  her  beautiful  face,  he  broke 
into  hoarse  unpleasant  laughter. 

"Second  kiss  by  the  enemy — utter  fail- 
ure, "  he  grated  out,  throwing  his  arms 
wide  in  a  meaningless  gesture.  "I  guess 
this  better  be  our  last  encounter,  Nathalie. 
Ha,  ha!  Nathalie!" 

He  drawled  her  name  derisively.  The 
sound  of  his  coarse  jeering  tones  brought 
him  to  himself  with  a  violent  start. 

"I'm  sorry/'  he  said  very  gravely. 
"Really  I  am,  for  I  do  like  you.  Good 
night." 

Turning,  he  walked  slowly  out  of  the 
room,  acutely  glad  that  she  did  not  speak. 
He  took  his  hat  from  the  inscrutable 
Yvette,  and  forgetting  that  elevators  ex- 
isted, he  walked  down  the  four  flights  of 
stairs. 

The  fresh  cool  air  that  whipped  into  his 
car  as  he  drove  swiftly  away  down  River- 
side Drive  was  to  his  hot  body  what  the 
quiet  decision  that  had  come  to  him  was 


204  A  THING  APART 

to  his  mind.  He  would  wait  forever  for 
Judith;  he  could  not  go  on  without  at 
least  the  hope  of  someday  having  her. 
That  he  had  seen  her  in  Newland's  arms 
meant  nothing  now;  his  sudden  unques- 
tioning trust  thrust  aside  even  the  knowl- 
edge of  his  vision. 

At  the  hotel  he  found  a  special  delivery 
letter  from  her,  written  from  their  Long 
Island  house,  and  opened  it  with  fingers 
that  acted  like  splintered  sticks.  He  sat 
down  on  one  of  the  onyx  benches  in  the 
middle  of  the  lobby,  stupefied  with  a  sort 
of  estatic  relief  which  blinded  him  for 
several  minutes  from  reading  the  letter. 

"Dane  dearest,  that  was  a  very  nasty 
note  of  yours,  wasn't  it?  I  firmly  in- 
tended never  to  forgive  you  for  it,  but — 
you  see.  Now  that  I  Ve  thought  it  over,  I 
can  see  how  much  more  reason  you  have, 
than  I  did,  to  think  wrongly. 

"But  when  you  saw  Billy  and  me 
(heaven  knows  how)  I  must  just  have 
been  telling  him  that  I  loved  you !  Was 
it  so  very  dreadful  to  let  him  kiss  me 


BURNING  HIS  BRIDGES  205 

good-by  ?  I  would  have  told  you  all  about 
it,  just  as  I  did  tell  you  about  us,  the  other 
day. 

"But  I've  been  thinking  and  thinking 
how  horribly  you  must  be  feeling,  for  I 
know  how  miserable  I  was  silly  enough 
to  feel  about  Mrs.  Sangster.  Even  if  she 
is  as  old  as  Methuselah,  I  just  know  she 
likes  you;  I  used  to  watch  her,  and,  you 
blessed  infant,  I'm  sure  I  know  her  heaps 
better  than  you  do.  I  couldn't  bear  it, 
that  she  should  influence  you  more  than 
I  did  in  anything.  But  I'll  spend  years 
in  sack-cloth  and  ashes  for  being  such  an 
idiot. 

"  Telephone  me  when  you  get  this ;  what 
are  you  doing  at  that  hotel,  anyway  ?  You 
understand,  don't  you,  that  I  don't  want 
any  more  time  to  think  about  anything. 
I  love  you,  and  I  couldn't  be  so  humble 
if  I  weren't  sure  you  love  me. 

"Judith." 

After  eternities  of  wasted  time,  he  got 
the  Lawson  house  on  the  telephone.  When 
Judith's  voice  came  over  the  wires,  soft 
and  deep — a  little  throaty  as  though  she 
had  been  crying — it  made  him  tremble 
violently. 


206  A  THING  APAKT 

" Judith?"  he  said  hoarsely;  "that— 
this  you,  Judith?" 

"Yes." 

"I  got  your  note." 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

"I— I  just  got  it," 

"Yes,"  she  said  again.  "Where  are 
you?" 

"At  the  hotel." 

"I  tried  to  get  you  there  about  dinner 
time.  Did  you  have  dinner  with  your 
western  friends?" 

He  grew  flamingly  hot;  the  truth 
seemed  horribly  out  of  all  proportion. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  terrified  by  the  short 
silence  that  followed. 

"When  do  they  leave?" 

"They've  gone.  You  —  you  sound 
queer,  Judith." 

"W-ell,"  her  voice  broke  a  little,  "I've 
had  a  queer  day.  What  did  you  do  all 
day?" 

"Did  the  best  I  could  to  keep  from  go- 


BURNING  HIS  BRIDGES  207 

ing  mad. . .  .chased  around  and  looked  at 
fencing  and  machinery  and  windmills. ... 

don't  even  know  what  I  bought I'd 

made  up  my  mind  I'd  beat  it  west  this 
week. . .  .Oh,  Judith,  you've  no  idea,  I've 
simply  gone  through  hell. ..  .it's  early, 
can't  I  drive  out?" 

"IST-o,  it's  nearly  eleven ;  why  didn't  you 
think  of  it  sooner?" 

"  Why — why,  dear,  I  just  got  your  note, 
I  just  got  in.  You  know  how  it  is,  Judith. 
I  hadn't  seen  these  chaps  since  we  played 
mud  pies  along  the  Marne ;  I  couldn't  very 
well  break  away  from  'em  sooner.  I  can 
be  out  there  in  half  an  hour." 

It  was  more  with  the  subconscious  de- 
sire to  thrust  Mrs.  Sangster  conclusively 
out  of  his  past,  present  and  future,  than 
with  an  ulterior  motive  of  deceit,  that  he 
developed  this  unfortunate  fiction.  But 
in  the  singing  awfulness  that  filled  the 
ensuing  silence,  he  knew,  before  Judith 
spoke,  that  he  had  burned  his  bridges. 


208  A  THING  APART 

"I  just  telephoned  Mrs.  Sangster  a  few 
minutes  ago,"  Judith  finally  said,  her 
words  precisely  acute,  "to  tell  her  that 
Marie  had  stupidly  packed  her  tennis 
things  with  ours.  She  told  me  what  a 
jolly  time  you  had  this  morning,  and  at 
luncheon,  a-nd — at  dinner.  There — there 
isn't  anything  more  to  say,  I  think. " 

While  she  talked  his  body  had  been 
released  from  ravages  of  fire  and  claimed 
by  a  frozen  numbness.  He  began  stam- 
mering that  he  could  explain  everything 
. . .  .that  it  was  nothing,  nothing. . .  .that 
she  knew  it  was  nothing ....  for  God's 
sake  not  to  make  any  more  trouble  out  of 
nothing. 

"That  is  just  it,  Dane,"  cut  in  her  mer- 
cilessly resolute  voice,  "our  ideas  of 
*  no  thing'  are  not  the  same.  You  can  not 
make  any  possible  explanation  to  me.  You 
see  that  what  I  was  afraid  of,  is  true,  and 
I  prefer  to  take  my  medicine  now,  all  at 
once,  rather  than  to  have  a  life-long  bottle 


BURNING  HIS  BRIDGES  209 

of  it.  I  don't  want  to  see  you,  nor  to  hear 
from  you.  You  told  me  yesterday  you 
were  ' through  with  me.'  Now,  I  am 
1  through  with  you,'  and  when  I  am 
through,  it  is  for  always.  Good-by." 

It  was  perhaps  half  an  hour  after  this, 
that  Dane,  who  had  been  driving  aimlessly 
about  the  sleepy  streets,  finally  stopped 
again  at  an  apartment  on  Riverside 
Drive.  The  old  French  maid,  Yvette, 
whose  face  held  a  secret  in  every  myriad 
wrinkle,  admitted  him  and  left  him  in  the 
drawing-room  which  was  still  reminiscent 
of  his  cigarettes. 

Mrs.  Sangster  came  out  immediately, 
in  a  white  chiffon  robe  out  of  which  her 
shoulders  rose  as  delicately  pink  as 
azaleas.  There  was  a  very  real  solicitude 
on  her  lovely  face  and  her  voice  was  tender 
with  sympathy. 

"I  knew  you  were  troubled,"  she  said 
quite  simply;  "I'll  be  an  awfully  kind 
enemy  if  you'll  only  let  me." 


210  A  THING  APART 

He  went  quickly  toward  her.  There 
was  no  barrier  before  his  desire  for  her, 
now.  He  wanted  nothing  but  the  forget- 
fulness  which  she  could  give  him.  She 
came  into  his  arms  as  lightly  as  a  breeze- 
blown  thistle-down,  with  a  little  murmur 
of  sympathy  soft  as  a  low  song,  her  lips 

/ 

barely  touched  his,  seeming  just  to  draw 
away,  yet  lingering.  Very  slowly  his  em- 
brace tightened,  crushing  her  body  close 
against  his  own  as  he  watched  her  face 
flush  in  reflection  of  the  flame  in  his  own, 
then  with  low  broken  laughter,  his  lips 
found  the  fragrant  flesh  where  her  gos- 
samer gown  slipped  away. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  TRINKET 

IT  was  late  afternoon  of  the  next  day 
when  he  drove  up  to  the  great  white  coun- 
try house  that  sprawled  so  comfortably 
along  the  hilltop  and  peered,  like  a  com- 
placent old  man  over  his  newspaper,  down 
over  fields  of  tree-tops  at  the  Hudson 
River.  His  mother  came  down  the  steps 
to  meet  him  and  the  welcome  in  her  face 
was  so  pleasant  to  him  that  he  thought 
with  surprise,  "Why,  how  pretty  she 
looks."  She  wore  a  simply  cut  gown  of 
pale  yellow  that  brought  out  golden  lights 
in  her  deeply  dark  eyes,  the  girdle  caught 
together  with  a  few  bright  nasturtiums, 
and  her  hair  was  surprisingly  gray,  mak- 
ing her  slender  face  seem  a  little  less  pale. 
211 


212  A  THING  APART 

He  kissed  her  with  a  slight  air  of  self- 
consciousness. 

"Well,  the  hair's  coming  on,  isn't  it?" 
' '  Oh !    Why,  yes.    I  get  five  years  older 
every  time  Jennie  shampoos  it.    How — 
how  are  you,  dear?" 

1  'Why,    I'm    all    right— little    tired." 
His  grin  made  her  eyes  fill  with  tears. 
She  stopped  in  the  pebbled  path  at  the 
foot  of  the  steps,  her  eyes  loving  and  sor- 
rowing over  him. 

"Isn't  it  going  to  be  all  right,  dear?" 
"Sure  it  is.    She's  saved  from  a  profli- 
gate husband  and  I'm  saved  from  a  sus- 
picious wife." 

* '  Sh,  dear.  Keith 's  here  working  on  his 
government  reports." 

i  '  Oh,  damn ! ' '  With  difficulty  he  swal- 
lowed further  expressions  of  resentment, 
and  they  went  up  the  steps  silently;  he 
hadn't  realized  that  he  wanted  his  mother 
to  himself;  it  was  so  entirely  a  new 
sensation. 


THE  TRINKET  213 

Tall,  quiet-faced  Keith  Newland  with 
his  slightly  stooped  shoulders  and  thin  red 
hair  came  forward  out  of  a  shadowy  cor- 
ner of  the  porch,  his  hands  in  the  pockets 
of  his  loose  coat. 

" Hello,  Dane,"  he  said  quietly. 

"Gosh,  how  he  hates  me,"  flashed 
Dane's  intuition  —  another  thing  he 
seemed  always  to  have  known  and  never 
to  have  thought  of  before.  Looking  at 
the  dignified  scholarly  man  with  eyes 
sharpened  by  new  values,  he  saw  a  keen 
dislike  in  his  eyes.  Newland  had  evidently 
overheard  his  last  explosive  words  and 
thought  them  uttered  in  some  irritation 
at  his  mother. 

" Hello,"  said  Dane  shortly,  and  with 
a  sort  of  grim  amusement  as  if  to  chal- 
lenge the  older  man's  antagonistic  air  of 
protection  over  his  mother,  he  threw  his 
arm  about  her  shoulders  and  gave  Iier  a 
quick  awkward  hug. 

"Dad  home?"  he  asked. 


214  A  THING  APAJRT 

"No,  he's  driving  out  late ;  those  oil  men 
from  Texas  are  here." 

"Then  send  Tom  up  with  some  eats  for 
me  about  seven,  will  you,  mother?  Ill  let 
you  two  have  an  agreeable  dinner,"  and 
he  strode  on  into  the  house,  torn  strangely 
between  a  desire  to  knock  Keith  Newland 
off  the  porch,  and  a  feeling  of  new  liking 
for  the  man. 

After  dark  he  sneaked  out  of  a  side  door 
for  a  walk,  hoping  that  if  he  tired  his 
body  sufficiently  he  might  sleep.  He 
tried  running,  and  jumping  hedges,  but 
his  body  scorned  weariness,  and  his  brain 
only  pounded  on  in  its  rut  of  misery.  He 
wished  he  had  stayed  in  town  where  at 
least  temporary  forgetfulness  lay,  but 
now,  when  he  thought  of  Mrs.  Sangster  it 
was  as  an  experience  rather  than  a 
personality. 

Finally  he  came  back  to  the  house  and 
stretched  himself  out  in  one  of  the  porch 
hammocks  just  outside  the  open  library 


THE  TRINKET  215 

windows.  A  mist  had  rolled  up  from  the 
river  and  its  damp  cool  touch  was  pleas- 
ant to  him,  but  it  drove  his  mother  and 
Keith  Newland  in  from  the  front  veranda 
to  the  library.  At  first  their  words  meant 
nothing  to  him,  but,  hearing  Judith's 
name,  his  ears  helplessly  listened. 

"Judith's  lots  like  Ellen,"  Keith  New- 
land  was  saying,  "it  takes  her  a  long  time 
to  make  up  her  mind  but  when  she  does, 
she  never  changes  it.  No,  I'm  afraid 
Billy's  lost  out  for  good." 

"Billy  didn't  tell  you  about  it,  then?" 
Mrs.  Elridge  asked. 

"Well,  no.  I  didn't  bother  him  about 
it.  I  could  see  he  was  pretty  well  cut  up. 
He  just  said  he'd  go  over  to  the  White- 
laws'  and  get  her  out  of  his  mind  as  best 
he  could.  God  knows  I'm  sorry  for  the 
boy." 

Dane  heard  the  click  of  his  mother's 
knitting  needles.  He  knew  now  without 
any  doubt  that  Keith  Newland  loved  his 


216  A  THING  APART 

mother.  He  knew  it  by  the  way  he  said 
those  last  words.  There  was  a  little  si- 
lence. His  mother  broke  it  to  ask 
irrelevantly : 

"  Keith,  did  Dane  look  badly  to  you  this 
afternoon?" 

"Now  that  I  think  of  it,  he  did  look  a 
bit  seedy.  I  imagine  it's  nothing  to  worry 
about,  Jane ;  a  little  too  good  a  time  with 
his  friends,  probably." 

"Oh,  it's  nothing,  I  know,"  she  said 
quickly,  "I  just  wondered  if  I  imagined 
it.  I'm  always  expecting  some  horrible 
effect  from  his  wounds." 

"I  doubt  if  they'll  ever  bother  him;  he 
looks  a  healthy  young  animal  enough.  He 
seems  to  have  changed  somewhat." 

"Yes,  I  think  so,"  she  agreed  absently. 
Her  voice  had  lost  its  false  coating  as  of 
intense  interest  in  whatever  was  being 
said.  Dane  sensed  in  it  the  same  quality 
of  familiar  trust  and  confidence  that  had 
been  so  wonderfully  sweet  to  him  in  Ju- 


THE  TRINKET  217 

dith's  voice ;  it  made  him  think,  miserably, 
of  what  Judith  had  said  about  every  one 
having  some  one  person  to  whom  they 
were  wholly  and  entirely  honest. 

"  You  know,  Dane  has  seemed  more  like 
you  to  me  this  time,  Jane,  than  he  ever 
has  before,"  Newland  said  musingly. 

"Oh."  Her  queer  little  gasp  made 
Dane's  face  feel  hot.  "Oh,  do  you  think 
so,  Keith?  I'm  afraid  he  wouldn't  like 
very  well  to  think  so,  himself.  Do  you 
remember  how  his  baby  game  was  always 
'playing  I'm  father"?" 

"Yes." 

"He's  never  stopped  playing  it,"  she 
said  with  an  unsure  little  laugh,  "until 
just  lately.  Now  he's  beginning  to  be — 
himself." 

"That's  good,"  said  Newland  in  a  con- 
strained voice. 

"Not  that  there  aren't  many  traits  of 
John's  that  I  want  him  always  to  keep," 
she  added  in  quick  loyalty. 


218  A  THING  APAET 

"Oh,  of  course;  certainly." 

After  a  little  time  in  which  Dane  heard 
newspapers  rustling,  Newland  spoke 
again  in  a  quiet  unemotional  voice. 

"There  isn't  anything  you  want  to  talk 
over  with  me,  is  there,  Jane?" 

"Oh,  thank  you,  Keith.  I  couldn't  be- 
gin, somehow.  I  was  sure  you  felt  I 
wanted  to  talk  to  you,  though.  Oh, 
Keith,  it's  never  been  so  long,  before." 

A  great  vicarious  yearning  to  under- 
stand the  tangle  of  his  mother's  life,  a 
desire  utterly  alien  to  curiosity,  held  Dane 
tensely  listening. 

"How  long?"  asked  Newland  gently. 

"Over  two  years." 

"Y-es?" 

His  faintly  surprised,  reflective  ques- 
tion seemed  to  open  the  flood  gates  of  her 
heart;  she  poured  out  her  words  in  a 
voice  so  scourged  with  pain  that  Dane's 
own  trouble  fled  before  the  sound  of  it. 

"I  can't  be  sure  it's  lil^e  the  others, 

xx 


THE  TRINKET  219 

Keith — just  infatuation ....  she  is  so 
lovely. ..  .1. ..  .can't  bear  it  very  much 

longer he 's  talked  to  me  about  her . . . ., 

he  says  he  feels  she  needs  our  friendship 
. . .  .she's  touched  him  more  deeply  than 
any  one  else  ever  has ....  Oh,  Keith, 
I  am  so  tired  of  everything." 

"Don't,  dear,  don't  let  it  hurt  you  so," 
said  Newland  gently,  his  voice  infinitely 

distressed,  "I'm  sure  it  isn't  so — so 

oh,  my  God,  Jane,  how  can  you  go  on  lov- 
ing him?" 

"I  don't  know,  Keith,"  her  voice  was 
quietly  empty  again,  "just  the  same  rea- 
son that  you  go  on  loving  me,  I  guess.  I 
suppose  it  sounds  ridiculous,  but  he  does 
depend  on  me  for — for  a  good  deal,"  she 
finished  lamely  as  if  ashamed  of  so 
boasting. 

"Of  course  he  does."  The  man's  tones 
were  again  matter-of-fact  and  reassuring. 
"I  think  you  made  a  mistake  asking  her 
out  here,  Jane.  How  did  you  happen  to  T ' 


220  A  THING  APART 

"Oh,  I  can't  really  tell  you.  I  didn't 
want  to  seem  to  avoid  her  to — to  John, 
and  every  one  has  her  when — well,  when 
it's  necessary.  I  think  I  almost  hoped 
you'd  be  attracted  to  her,"  her  words 
ended  in  a  little  shattered  burst  of 
laughter. 

"My  God,  Jane,  I  loathe  her.  I  want 
to  choke  the  woman  every  instant  she's 
near  me.  I  can  not  see  why  society  toler- 
ates her — her  sort.  She's  twice  as  con- 
temptible as  if  she  had  a  license." 

"W-ell,  that  isn't  very  just,  Keith.  I 
don't  know  but  what  there's  more  reason 
for  a  man  to  respect  his  wife's  dignity 
than  for  a  strange  woman  to.  I  often — " 

"I  wasn't  arguing  for  your  husband," 
Newland  inserted  stiffly;  "I've  always 
thought  you  preferred  me  not  to  mention 
my  ideas  about  him." 

"I  often  remind  myself,"  she  went  on 
as  if  she  had  not  heard  his  interrup- 
tion, "that  if  I  had  been  the  right  wife 


THE  TKINKET  221 

for  John  he  wouldn't  have  needed  any  one 
else.  The  first  two  years  we  were  mar- 
ried I  don't  think  he  even  knew  there 
was  another  woman  in  the  world."  There 
was  a  pitiable  pride  in  the  words. 

Newland  said  nothing.  After  a  time 
she  continued,  more  to  herself  than  to 
him: 

"How  queer  it  all  is;  you  have  never 
given  me  anything  but  happiness;  if  I 
needed  help  I  should  go  to  you;  and 
still—" 

"  Yes,"  he  assented  dryly,  accepting  her 
thought  as  it  hung  unfinished  in  the  air, 
— "and  still,  here  we  are.  Have  you 
actually  considered  a  divorce,  Jane?" 
He  put  the  question  cautiously,  his  tone 
expectant  of  rebuff,  but  she  answered  as 
simply  as  though  they  were  discussing 
the  income  tax. 

"Yes.  I  have,  lately.  But  I  think  I'm 
too  much  of  a  coward,  though  I  don't  see 
how  anything  could  hurt  me  more  than  to 


222  A  THING  APART 

go  on  and  on  and  on  like  this.  But  if  I 
were  sure  they  loved  each  other  I — I 
would,  of  course." 

"Do  you  think  that  if  you  did,"  he  put 
in  as  she  hesitated,  "that,  well,  that  after 
a  time  you  could  come  to  me  ? ' ' 

"Perhaps,"  she  said  unhesitatingly, 
"but  it  would  always  be  the  same.  I 
would  want  John." 

"Yes,  I — I  know,"  his  voice  came 
thickly,  "but  I'm  not  sure  that  even  so, 
you  might  not  be  happier." 

She  considered  this  silently  for  a  little 
time,  then  she  said  abruptly,  with  a  whim- 
sicality of  nature  like  an  undercurrent  in 
still  water : 

"Oh,  the  lure  of  the  thing  we  can't 
have;  it's  the  only  enduring  desire  in  the 
world." 

"I've  an  idea  I  would  have  upset  that 
theory  pretty  thoroughly,  Jane." 

She  drew  in  her  breath  so  sharply  it 
was  like  a  faint  cry  of  pain. 


THE  TRINKET  223 

"Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,  I  would  so 
gladly  have  given  you  my  love  if  I  could." 

"Thank  you,  beloved,"  his  voice  was 
harsh  and  toneless  and  the  extravagant 
word  fell  queerly  from  his  lips.  He  got 
up  and  cleared  his  throat. 

"You'll  take  cold  in  that  damp  breeze," 
he  said  concernedly,  and  closed  the 
windows. 

Dane  lay  there  thinking  until  long  after 
their  indistinct  voices  were  stilled,  and  fi- 
nally tired  his  mind  with  the  tangle  of 
the  age-old  social  sex  problem,  so  that  he 
went  up  to  bed,  grateful  for  any  sort  of 
weariness,  even  that  of  futility. 

The  next  two  days  left  a  mark  on 
Dane's  nature  for  every  one  of  their 
dragging  unreal  minutes — minutes  in 
which  Dane  began  to  comprehend  the 
depth  of  his  mother's  insight  in  saying, 
"You  mean  more  to  your  father  than 
either  of  you  realize."  The  constraint 
that  had  come  between  them  was  like  a 


224  A  THING  APART 

great  merciless  light,  X-raying  them  one 
to  the  other  with  unsparing  accuracy. 
Neither  of  them  mentioned  anything  that 
had  passed  and  the  ignored  canker  ate 
deeper  and  deeper  as  their  outward  ami- 
cableness  increased.  The  strain  showed  on 
them  both.  They  talked  constantly  when 
they  were  together;  a  short  silence  put 
them  both  frightfully  on  edge ;  they  talked 
about  the  ranch,  and  Texas  oil  wells,  and 
railroads  and  the  administration. 

Dane  began  to  feel  as  if  they  were 
playing  a  constant  game  of  tag ;  wherever 
he  went,  whatever  he  did,  his  father  ap- 
peared as  by  magic,  with  the  same  idea  in 
mind.  Some  other  old  friends  had  come 
out  from  town  and  Keith  Newland  stayed 
on — the  science  of  guests  was  a  very  def- 
inite one  in  their  household. 

After  luncheon  on  a  smotheringly  hot 
afternoon,  Dane  found  the  north  porch 
agreeably  deserted  and  flung  himself 
down  on  the  canvas  swing  for  a  nap. 


THE  TRINKET  225 

He  wakened  himself  crying  "Judith!" 
As  always,  he  had  no  sooner  drifted  into 
sleep  than  miserable  torturing  dreams 
came  to  him.  With  a  sickening  intuition, 
he  felt  the  presence  of  his  father ;  had  he 
really  called  out  "Judith?"  or  had  he  only 
dreamed  of  calling  to  her?  He  sat  up, 
stretched  with  superlative  carelessness 
and  yawned  audibly.  Yes,  there  sat  his 
father,  lounging  in  an  easy  chair,  read- 
ing. Dane  got  up  stealthily  and  started 
into  the  house.  He  was  in  the  doorway 
when  his  father  spoke : 

"Dane,  if  there's  anything  bothering 
you,  I'd  be  glad  to  help  you  if  I  can." 

So  he  had  called  aloud ;  his  father  had 
heard  him. 

"You  help  me?  You?"  his  voice  was 
scathingly  bitter;  his  father  seemed  to 
freeze  into  his  immobile  lounging  attitude. 

"I  don't  wish  to  force  myself  on  you, 
of  course,  nor  to  urge  your  confidence. 
I'm  only  saying  that  if  I  can  help  you, 


226  A  THING  APAET 

111  be  glad  to."  The  effort  these  words 
cost  made  him  slightly  pale.  He  adjusted 
his  big  glasses  and  regarded  his  open 
book.  Dane  walked  slowly  toward  him, 
laughing  unpleasantly. 

"You  help  me?  Why,  you're  funny! 
You  help  me?  My  God,  if  it  weren't  for 
you  I'd — I'd  be — well,  it's  a  cinch  I 
wouldn't  be  as  near  insane  as  I  am.  Why 
do  you  suppose  I've  lost  my  girl — why? 
Because  she  thinks  I'll  be  like  you.  That's 
why.  You've  made  mother's  life  hell  and 
you've  started  out  fine  on  mine."  He 
stopped,  helplessly  swallowing,  his  elbows 
doubled,  his  fists  clenched. 

His  father  looked  up  at  him  with  his 
inscrutable,  expressionless  gray  eyes,  his 
lips  twitched  back  nervously  into  a  mirth- 
less grin. 

"Now  you  know  how  I  feel,  and  for 
'God's  sake  quit  following  me  around — 
let  me  alone!  I  can't  stand  you,  that's  all 
there  is  to  it." 


THE  TRINKET  227 

He  stood  an  instant  longer  above  the 
pale  silent  man  in  the  chair.  He  felt  cold 
and  numb  and  without  emotion,  but  on 
the  way  up-stairs  he  heard  himself  whim- 
pering aloud  like  a  worn-out  youngster. 

He  put  Thomas  to  packing  his  things 
for  the  West; — clothes,  books,  papers, 
everything.  He  wanted  to  leave  at  once 
and  stay  forever.  But  he  had  some  things 
he  wanted  to  say  to  his  mother — that  he 
had  decided  must  be  said.  He  felt  swept 
clean  of  the  last  vestige  of  youth,  and  a 
capacity  for  judgment,  serene  and  infin- 
ite, seemed  to  have  settled  upon  him.  He 
found  his  mother  out  in  the  west  garden 
sketching  in  the  shade,  and  dropping 
down  on  the  grass  beside  her  stool  in  a 
jack-knifed  posture,  hugged  his  updrawn 
knees.  She  was  working  with  water 
colors,  her  pad  covered  with  a  flat  wash 
of  bright  red. 

" Finish  Serenity?"  he  asked,  grinning, 

"N-o,  I  wasn't  in  the  mood  for  it." 


228  A  THING  APART 

"Good  idea.  This  promises  better. 
Going  to  be  Hell,  isn't  it?  It's  nice  and 
red." 

"Oh,  Dane!"  she  gave  a  little  unwilling 
laugh.  "Please,  dear,  don't — don't  start 
in.  I  was  just  going  to  let  my  thoughts 
gather  round  this  and — and  see  what 
comes  of  it." 

"I  see.  But  say,  mother,  on  the  square, 
what  good  do  you  get  out  of  this  kind  of 
thing?" 

"My  dear,  you  must  remember  that  all 
new  movements  seem  ridiculous  to  those 
who  aren't  interested  in  them,"  she 
parried. 

"Y-es,  I  suppose  that's  true.  Honest 
to  God  though,  are  you  interested  in  it  I 
Or  do  you  just  daub  around  so  that  that 
half  baked  bunch  in  town  will  rave  over 
you  and  let  you  feed  and  clothe  'em?" 

She  flushed  painfully  and  did  not 
answer.  He  scrutinized  her  thoughtfully. 
No  woman,  however  conqueringly  lovely, 


THE  TRINKET  229 

he  thought  to  himself,  could  withstand 
the  horror  of  that  hat — an  indescribable 
piece  of  orange-colored  millinery  em- 
broidered profusely  with  butterflies.  It 
seemed  doubly  ridiculous  because  of  the 
slender  weary  face  beneath  it.  He  saw 
that  her  old  timidity  of  him  was  creeping 
out  under  his  scrutiny,  but  he  goaded 
himself  on  with  what  he  had  determined 
to  say,  looking  away  from  her  while  he 
talked,  his  words  spilling  out  in  a  frenzy 
of  haste  lest  she  should  interrupt  him. 

"Mother,  I've  been  thinking  a  good  deal 
about  you  these  last  pleasant  days.  At 
first  I  thought  dad  was — was,  well,  just  a 
bounder,  the  way  Judith  talked  and 
things  looked  and  everything  and  the 
Lord  knows  I  don't  feel  any  too  cordial 
toward  him  right  now,  myself ;  but  you've 
gone  at  dad  wrong,  mother.  If  there's 
any  thing  dad's  keen  about  it's  a  person 
who  doesn't  knuckle  under  to  him,  and  it 
looks  to  me  as  if  that's  what  you've  done 


230  »  A  THING  APABT 

for  about  twenty-seven  years.  You've 
killed  your  own  personality  trying  so 
darned  hard  to  please  him.  Now  this  fool 
painting — I  know  why  you  do  it,  you 
think  if  you  can  get  a  little  fame  or  no- 
toriety out  of  it  that  dad '11  be  pleased  in 
the  long  run,  but  it's  all  rot.... dad 
loathes  it. . .  .you  rub  him  the  wrong  way 
all  the  time  talking  about  it. . .  .if  you 
could  beat  him  eighteen  holes  of  golf  he'd 
think  you  were  some  use  in  the  world. 

"And  another  thing — you  don't  stand 
up  for  yourself ;  when  dad  gets  off  one  of 
his  mean  sarcastic  speeches,  why  don't 
you  blaze  away  and  give  him  the  devil? 
But  no you  just  go  cringing  along  try- 
ing to  pretend  it  didn't  hurt  you  and  that 
everything  he  says  and  does  pleases  you  to 

death It's  no  wonder  he's  forgot  you 

have  any  feelings.  You've  trained  him  to 
think  so.  And  these  darned  clothes  you 

wear they're  awful you're  always 

trying  to  look  like  somebody  else  instead 


THE  TRINKET  231 

of  getting  the  kind  of  clothes  you  want .... 
Why,  mother,  you  don't  look  any  more 

like    yourself   than — than    a    rabbit , 

You've  tried  to  please  dad  without  any 
respect  for  yourself  until  you're  not  a 
real  person,  you're  oh,  I  don't  know — 
just  sort  of  a  trinket — now  I'm  not  stand- 
ing up  for  dad's  affairs — not  on  your  life 
but—" 

What  had  happened? 

Carried  along  by  his  excited  impetuous 
words  and  staring  hard  away  from  his 
mother,  he  had  lost  all  thought  of  any 
brutality  in  his  words.  A  queer  rustling 
noise  made  him  turn  his  head  slowly  to- 
ward her  just  in  time  to  see  her  slipping 
off  the  stool  into  a  crumpled  little  heap 
on  the  grass.  She  fell  slightly  backward 
in  a  horribly  awkward  posture,  her  color- 
less face  framed  cruelly  by  the  great  gaudy 
hat.  For  a  paralyzing  instant  he  could 
not  move;  his  hands  would  not  unclasp 
from  around  his  knees;  then,  freed  sud- 


232  A  THING  APART 

denly  from  Ms  tension  of  terror,  he  sprang 
to  his  feet  and  gathered  her  up  in  his 
arms.  The  hat  lay  where  he  raised  her 
head  out  of  it,  like  a  great  seedless  sun- 
flower on  the  grass.  Above  it  stood  her 
easel  holding  the  flat  red  wash  around 
w]iich  her  thoughts  had  not  yet  "begun 
to  gather  themselves." 

Cold  sweat  covered  him.  How  light  she 
was — how  could  she  be  so  light?  Her 
hairpins  loosened  and  scattered  her  hair 
in  dusty  gray  strands  over  his  arm.  He 
began  running,  trying  to  call  for  her 
maid,  old  Jennie,  who  had  been  with  them 
since  she  had  come  to  nurse  him  as  a 
baby,  but  only  hoarse  mutterings  came 
from  his  throat.  Jennie  had  seen  them 
and  was  holding  the  porch  door  open.  His 
fears  lightened  at  sight  of  her  stolid  effi- 
cient old  face. 

He  was  suddenly  aware  that  his  father 
stood  back  of  Jennie  staring  over  her 
shoulder  at  his  wife's  limp  figure  as  if  he 


THE  TRINKET  233 

were  confronted  with  the  actuality  of  the 
impossible. 

"Is  she  dead?"  he  asked  in  a  voice  as 
little  like  his  own  as  was  Jennie 's  savagely 
retorted : 

"Why  should  you  care  if  she  was?" 

Dane  recalled  afterward  that  his  father 
had  ignored  this  insolence,  standing  stup- 
idly aside  to  let  the  three  of  them  pass  and 
he  was  immensely  glad  to  have  seen  that 
horrified  sickened  look  on  his  father's 
face. 

"Take  her  right  up  to  her  rooms,"  Jen- 
nie ordered  him  reassuringly;  "she  faints 
sometimes,  my  poor  little  lady." 

"Why  didn't  you  ever  tell  me  she  has 
these  spells?"  he  demanded  in  an  angry 
whisper,  quieted  by  the  calm  manner  in 
which  Jennie  went  about  reviving  his 
mother. 

Old  Jennie  gave  him  a  brief  but  elo- 
quent glare. 

"I  never  s 'posed  you  was  interested  in 


A  THING  APART 

anything  but  yourself.  Here,  pour  a 
spoon  of  that  into  the  water." 

Thoroughly  reprimanded,  he  obeyed 
her  orders  awkwardly  and  helped  as  best 
he  could.  Emotion  that  made  his  hands 
tremble,  swept  over  him  for  that  little  still 
figure  which  had  given  him  life.  Old 
Jennie  crooned  over  her  while  she  worked. 

"Poor  sweet  honey. ..  .Jennie's  dear 
good  lady. . .  .there. . .  .feeling  better  now 

, there there. ...  .Jennie's  dear 

sweet  lady. ..." 

Suddenly  she  looked  up  from  bending 
over  the  bed. 

"God  knows  I  hate  to  see  her  like  this 
• — the  gentlest  soul  God  ever  made,"  she 
muttered  fiercely. 

It  made  Dane  think  of  what  Mrs. 
Sangster  had  said  about  his  mother's 
gentleness.  He  flushed. 

"What, — what  makes  these?"  he  stam- 
mered. 

"Oh,  torment  I  s'pose;  nothing  else  to 


THE  TRINKET  235 

call  it — just  torment;  what  she  gets  for 
always  thinking  and  doing  good  for  them 
as  don't  deserve  it.  I  can  tell  you,  there's 
some  folks  on  this  earth  that  ought  to 
be—" 

She  smothered  her  vengeful  words  be- 
fore the  rebuke  in  his  steady  gaze  and 
went  on  with  her  work,  muttering  unin- 
telligibly. 

Finally  his  mother  opened  her  eyes; 
they  were  dream-drowsy  and  unseeing. 
Dane,  sitting  at  the  head  of  her  bed,  for- 
got Jennie,  forgot  everything  in  the  hot 
wave  of  remorse  that  swept  him. 

"Oh,  mother,"  he  choked,  "I'm  so 
damn  sorry;  I — I — are  you  all  right?" 

Her  dull  gaze  lightened  a  little  as  it 
found  his  stricken  one  and  she  smiled 
wearily.  One  of  her  thin  fluttering  hands 
reached  up  toward  his  face,  but  fell.  He 
caught  it  up  tightly  under  his  throat. 

"That's  the  trouble.... a  trinket...., 
nothing  but  a  trinket I  know  you're 


236  A  THING  APART 

right,  dear. . .  .but  let's let's  not  talk 

about  it  any  more. . .  .not  any  more. ..." 
Her  distressed  words  fluttered  out  on 
faint  breaths.  Then  her  eyes  knew  Jen- 
nie, who  was  staring,  petrified. 

"Isn't  it  nice  he  loves  me,  Jennie?" 
she  said  like  a  pleased,  proud  little  child 
as  she  dropped  back  in  the  pillows. 

"She'll  sleep  now,"  said  old  Jennie, 
her  tears  dropping  down  on  the  white 
covers,  "she  always  goes  to  sleep  after- 
ward. And — and  I  should  hope  to  God  you 
did  love  her ;  sure  it  was  only  her  prayers 
kept  you  safe  over  there." 

"Go  on  out,"  he  told  her  shortly.  "I'll 
stay  here  a  while." 

So  Jennie,  communing  audibly  with  the 
saints,  left  him  alone  with  his  mother. 

Once  he  heard  his  father  come  to  the 
outer  door,  and  heard  old  Jennie's  curt 
denying  voice,  and  heard  the  door  close 
in  the  expressive  way  that  Jennie  made  it 
her  privilege  occasionally  to  close  doors. 


THE  TRINKET  237 

He  sat  there  for  over  an  hour,  some- 
times leaning  close  over  his  mother's  tired 
fragile  face.  She  lay  with  her  head  slightly 
turned  on  the  pillow,  and  the  curl  that 
was  like  Judith's  lay  in  a  damp  ringlet 
just  back  of  her  small  prettily  shaped 
ear;  it  wa's  still  reddish  brown — a  poig- 
nant memory  of  her  girlhood.  He  touched 
it  with  slow  gentle  fingers. 

"I'll  bet  she  was  a  pretty  little  thing," 
he  thought  to  himself. 

She  wakened  slowly,  and  stared  at  him 
wonderingly. 

"Hello,"  he  said,  "how  d'  you  feel?" 

She  smiled  tremulously,  her  eyes  re- 
membering. 

"W-ell,  not  exactly  like  golf,  but  I 
might  practise  l  blazing  away  like  the 
devil.'  " 

He  knew  by  her  eyes  that  this  pretense 
of  jest  did  not  come  easily. 

"Oh  say,  mother,  you  know  I'm 
mighty  sorry.  I  didn't  have  any  idea. . . . 


238 

I  didn't  know. . .  .you  see  I — I — "  the 
careful  speech  he  had  formulated  while 
she  slept,  shattered  into  useless  bits. 

"How  could  you  know?"  she  said 
gently,  after  a  long  uncomfortable  pause, 
moistening  her  lips  as  she  spoke,  "how 
could  you  know  how  weak  a  woman  can 
be1?  It — it  was  mostly  the  heat,  dear;  I 
do  not  stand  this  hot  weather  very  well. 
But  I  think  we  won't  talk  about  these — 
these  things  any  more." 

He  bent  close  over  her,  freed  of  em- 
barrassment, unconscious  of  everything 
but  his  desire  to  drive  that  humiliated 
hurt  out  of  her  face. 

"Don't  feel  like  that,  mother,  don't. 
You  see  I  know  dad  loves  you  but — but 
he's  just  like  I  was,  I  guess.  If  I  hadn't 
got  this  jolt  about  Judith  I  probably 
wouldn't  have  realized  that  you  aren't 
getting  much  fun  out  of  life ;  and  all  dad 
needs — " 

"Dane!  oh,  you  wouldn't  say  anything! 


THE  TKLNTKET  239 

You  mustn't — oh,  I  couldn't  bear  to  have 
him  know  I — " 

He  took  hold  of  her  arms  and  held  her 
firmly. 

"S-ay,  mother,"  he  said  in  a  slow  low 
voice,  "what  d'  you  think? — do  you  think 
I'm  for  you,  or  not  I" 

With  a  little  cry,  half  of  pain  and  half 
of  joy,  she  put  her  arms  round  his  neck, 
and  he  held  her  against  his  shoulder,  pat- 
ting her  awkwardly.  He  kept  her  there 
because  it  was  easier  to  talk,  not  seeing 
her  face. 

"You  know  I've  got  a  plan  that's  going 
to  make  you  jump  right  out  of  bed  and 
forget  how  to  faint  for  the  rest  of  your 
life.  It's  no  habit  for  a  lady  a-tall.  And 
before  I  spring  this  plan  I  want  to  tell 
you  that  there's  no  use  objecting  nor  say- 
ing a  word  because  you're  going  to  do. . . ., 
just ....  what ....  I ....  say.  And  that  is 
this,  to-morrow  night  you  take  the  flier 
with  me  for  Wyoming ;  not  a  word  to  any- 


240  A  THING  APART 

body  but  Jennie,  and  you'll  take  enough 
stuff  to  last  till  Christmas  or  maybe  a 
year.  We  '11  leave  a  note  for  dad,  which  / 
will  write,  but  you  will  copy.  And  we'll 
try  a  little  ranching  instead  of  romance. 
That's  all  there  is  to  the  plan,  so  far." 

She  was  trembling  and  he  felt  tears  on 
his  neck. 

"Now,  mother,"  he  said  fiercely,  "can 
the  tears!  That's  the  kind  of  stuff  we're 
going  to  cut  out,  I  tell  you!" 

His  mother  pushed  away  to  look  at  him, 
the  glow  in  her  wet  eyes  defying  her 
tears. 

"I'm  not  crying.  Don't  be  so  overbear- 
ing," she  surprised  him.  "I  always  have 
wanted  to  ride  steers  and  tame  rattle- 
snakes." 


CHAPTER  XI 

GOSSIP  FROM  HOME 

ON  a  sunny  day  in  October,  Mrs.  El- 
ridge  sat  reading  a  letter  from  Dane, 
written  five  days  before  in  New  York 
City.  She  sat  astride  a  buckskin  cowpony 
in  the  shade  of  Perkins'  General  Mercan- 
tile Store  of  Sage  City,  Wyoming.  The 
day  was  hot,  and  hazy  with  dust  that  had 
perfumed  itself  in  hot  little  gray  leaves  of 
sage-brush  while  it  had  rested  from  the 
fitful  winds.  Mrs.  Elridge  wore  a  gray 
trousered  riding  habit,  a  Stetson  hat,  and 
diminutive  .brown  boots.  Unless  one  had 
looked  closely  under  the  straight-brimmed 
hat,  she  might  have  been  the  girl  of  twenty 
that  her  slender  figure  suggested. 

She   had   slipped   the   mail    into   the 

241 


242  A  THING  APART 

saddle-bag,  but  after  she  mounted,  she 
took  out  Dane's  letter,  held  the  envelope 
in  her  teeth,  and  read  the  careless  scrawl 
eagerly  through  to  the  end. 

"Dear  Mother: 

"Well,  it's  too  quiet  here  for  me ;  I  don't 
know  how  I  ever  thought  I  could  stand  it 
a  month.  I'm  leaving  to-morrow;  I'll  see 
you  then  on  Tuesday  if  Number  41  doesn't 
jump  the  track.  Nothing  has  changed 
here,  not  a  thing,  since  we  left;  I'll  wager 
there's  been  a  dozen  changes  out  there 
though,  in  these  three  weeks.  I  went  over 
to  the  gallery  yesterday  to  see  your  pic- 
tures. Took  dad.  The  Englishman  has 
taken  away  the  one  he  bought,  but  the 
other  one  looked  great.  I  could  smell 
your  sage-brush  and  hear  your  prairie 
dogs  bark.  Old  Frozen-face  Van  feaesle- 
ner  treated  us  almost  like  human  beings 
so  you  see  you've  landed  the  family,  artis- 
tically. I  wish  you  could  have  seen  dad's 
face!  Say  really,  mother,  we've  got  to 
relent  pretty  soon;  and  ask  dad  to  come 
out  for  a  while;  he's  beginning  to  look 
like  Grandfather  Elridge  in  his  last  days. 
Gosh,  I  never  had  any  idea  I  was  such  a 
bright  boy.  I  couldn't  help  rubbing  it 
into  him  a  little  about  old  Keith — I  didn't 


GOSSIP  FROM  HOME  243 

lie  much  and  it  worked  so  beautifully 
you  '11  never  believe  it.  But  I  never  opened 
my  head  about  his  coming  out  for  a  while ; 
just  said  I  hoped  Newland  could  come  out 
again  because  his  last  visit  seemed  to  do 
you  so  much  good.  He  said  last  night — 
but  I'll  tell  you  all  this  gossip  in  a  day  or 
two. 

"  You  bet  I  wish  I  were  there  right  now. 
' '  Affectionately, 

"Dane." 

No  one  had  come  up  from  the  ranch  the 
day  before  for  the  mail.  It  was  now  Tues- 
day, and  Number  41  was  due  in  half  an 
hour.  Four  months  before,  Mrs.  Elridge 
would  have  waited  for  Dane's  arrival  and 
left  it  for  him  to  arrange  about  getting  to 
the  ranch.  Now,  she  promptly  swung  off 
her  horse,  telephoned  to  the  foreman  to 
send  a  man  to  Sage  City  in  the  roadster 
who  would  ride  the  buckskin  back,  leaving 
the  car  for  herself  and  Dane.  It  was  a 
small  matter,  but  significant. 

When  Dane  dropped  off  the  great 
black  train  that  slowed,  snorting  with  im- 


244  A  THING  APART 

patience,  at  Sage  City,  the  first  thing  he 
noticed  was  a  change  in  the  small  town's 
contour. 

"By  jove,  I  knew  it!"  he  greeted  his 
mother,  "this  place  doesn't  stand  still. 
What  happened  to  the  Broadway?" 

The  Broadway  had  been  the  tar  paper 
movie  palace  of  Sage  City.  Its  luckless 
proprietor  had  innocently  enough  put 
forth  some  prohibition  propaganda  on  the 
screen,  merely  as  a  matter  of  contempo- 
rary enlightenment  but  which  was  taken 
as  an  effort  at  moral  persuasion  by  the 
"Lazy  A"  cowboys,  whose  disapproving 
shots  set  fire  to  the  curtain,  speedily  re- 
ducing the  Broadway  to  an  odorous  heap 
of  repentant  ashes. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you,"  gloated  Dane  on 
learning  its  fate.  "Now  where  would 
you  get  such  freedom  of  expression  in 
New  York?  Say!  you  look  fit,  mother. 
Want  to  drive?" 

"No.  I  want  to  listen.  How's  your 
father  looking,  dear?" 


GOSSIP  FROM  HOME  245 

"Like  this."  He  left  off  his  gear 
manipulating  to  give  her  an  exaggerated 
representation  of  limp  shoulders,  sagging 
mouth,  and  discouraged  cigarette.  "Yes, 
on  the  level  he  does.  Looks  like  a  man  on 
a  street  corner  that  you  want  to  give  ten 
dollars." 

"Oh,  Dane,"  she  said  in  a  distressed 
voice. 

"None  of  that,  mother.  He  doesn't  get 
out  here  for  a  couple  of  months  yet,  so 
don't  weaken." 

"I  didn't  mean  I  want  to  see  your 
father,"  she  said  quickly,  "you'd  be  sur- 
prised if  you  knew  how  little  I  want  to 
see  him." 

Dane  turned  a  startled  face  upon  her,  a 
face  whose  tan  was  eaten  away  around 
the  edges  by  the  last  three  weeks' 
civilization. 

"Say !  there  aren't  going  to  be  any  com- 
plications in  this,  are  there*?" 

She  looked  out  at  the  rapidly  fleeting 
fence  posts. 


246  A  THING  APART 

"Oh,  no;  but  I  don't  want  to  see  him. 
I  want  to  go  on  with  my  painting,  and 
with  all  these  things  out  here,  and  really 
enjoy  them."  Since  he  said  nothing  she 
went  on  stumblingly :  "Now  that  you've 
convinced  me  that  a  woman's  greatest 
mistake  is  to  make  her  love  her  *  whole 
existence'  you  don't  want  me  to  back- 
slide, do  you?  With  your  father  three 
thousand  miles  away,  I'm  succeeding  very 
well,  I  think,  in  keeping  it  a  '  thing 
apart.'  But  when  I'm  with  him — oh,  it 
just  sort  of  eats  me  up,  I  don't  know  how 
to  express  it  but — but  I'm  afraid  I'm  not 
well  enough  rehearsed  to  be  exhibited  yet 
a  while." 

Dane  gave  a  short  laugh.  The  four 
months  he  and  his  mother  had  spent  to- 
gether out  in  this  big  hilly  country  had 
developed  a  very  comfortable  friendship 
between  them,  and  he  was  surprised  a  lit- 
tle at  the  depth  of  his  pleasure  in  being 
with  her  again  after  only  three  weeks' 
separation. 


GOSSIP  FROM  HOME  247 

"I  know  what  you  mean,'7  tie  told  her 
easily,  "that's  why  I  didn't  rise  to  any  of 
dad's  subtle  suggestion  that  he  might 
come  out  for  a  while.  Here,  hold  my  hat. 
Gosh,  I  like  the  feel  of  this  air  out  here. 
Dad  just  simply  can't  swallow  the  fact 
that  he  isn't  wanted.  It's  huge.  But  you 
know,  mother,  it's  natural  enough — about 
dad,  I  mean.  Until  a  thing  hits  you,  you 
don't  know  how  somebody  else  feels  when 
it  hits  them.  I  don't  suppose  you  ever 
thought  about  it,  but  dad's  never  been 
lonesome  before  in  his  life;  he's  never 
been  left  before;  he's  always  done  the 
leaving,  himself, — left  you  for  a  trip  when 
he  wanted  to,  and  come  back  to  you  when 
he  wanted  to.  And  oh,  by  Jove,  I  wish 
you  could  have  heard  him  pump  me  about 
old  Keith's  visit  out  here." 

His  laugh  rang  out  with  a  heartiness 
that  surprised  even  himself;  there  had 
been  very  little  hearty  laughter  in  his 
heart  since  he  lost  Judith.  But  his  mother 


248  A  THING  APART 

answered  seriously,  though  she  smiled 
slightly: 

"I  can't  quite  picture  your  father  suf- 
fering much  from  jealousy.  I  hope,  my 
dear,  that  in  the  enthusiasm  of  your  ex- 
perimenting you  weren't  forgetful  of 
Keith's  dignity." 

"Oh,  don't  worry;  I  devoted  myself 
wholly  to  your  side  of  it.  Why  shouldn't 
dad  be  jealous?  He's  just  like  anybody 
else,  only  you've  never  developed  his  pos- 
sibilities. Gosh,  I  wish  I  'd  taken  you  and 
dad  in  hand  sooner." 

His  mother  leaned  back,  shaken  with 
laughter.  "You  funny,  funny  thing, 
you,"  she  gasped. 

"W-ell,  you'll  see,"  he  challenged  her, 
grinning. 

"Did  you  get  the  blue  paint?"  she 
asked  in  a  diverting  tone. 

"Yes;  that  is,  dad  did.  I  happened  to 
say  one  night  at  dinner  that  I  couldn't  find 
the  kind  you  wanted  and  that  I  guessed 


GOSSIP  FROM  HOME  249 

I'd  phone  out  to  old  Keith  to  look  it  up 
for  you.  Dad  sort  of  growls  out,  'Oh,  let 
Newland  alone.  What  kind  of  stuff  does 
she  want?'  So  I  gave  him  those  hierogly- 
phics you  gave  me,  and  he  finally  dug  a 
couple  of  tubes  of  it  out  of  the  ghetto,  I 
think  he  said — took  him  two  days  to  find 
it.  Now  just  picture  dad  sequestering  in 
the  ghetto,  and  then  say  I'm  l funny!'  " 

"He  must  have  been  unbelievably  im- 
pressed with  my  pictures,"  she  said,  again 
divertingly,  "did  he  seem  really  to  like 
them?" 

"Why,  of  course.  You  know  dad  isn't 
any  stronger  on  sentiment  than  I  am,  but 
he  kept  saying,  *  I'd  no  idea  on  earth  she 
could  paint  like  this.'  Oh,  I  didn't  write 
you  what  Van  Raeslener  said,  did  I  ?  He 
kept  raving  on  about  your  *  inclusive  at- 
mosphere' till  dad  asked  what  he  meant. 
Then  he  told  us  the  reason  your  pictures 
were  bettor  than  the  other  western  pic- 
tures in  the  gallery  was  because  you  not 


250  A  THING  APART 

only  painted  what  you  saw,  but  what  you 
heard  and  smelled.  The  old  nut  was  right, 
too;  I  got  exactly  what  he  meant.  And 
dad—" 

"Oh,  stop!"  cried  his  mother  laugh- 
ingly, but  underneath  the  lightness  was 
the  emotional  strain  Dane  had  come  to 
understand.  "Don't  tell  me  any  more  for 
a  while,  or  I'll  surely  burst  with — with 
conceit.  Tell  me  something  about  your- 
self, now.  What  did  you  do  and  whom 
did  you  see?" 

Dane  knew  that  the  real  question  in  her 
mind  was  about  Judith,  but  she  had  never 
broken  her  promise  given  the  day  they 
started  west,  not  to  mention  Judith  to  him 
in  any  way.  In  recognition  of  this,  and 
because  his  heart  was  full  to  bursting  with 
its  fresh  pain,  he  replied  generously: 

"Well,  when  I  wasn't  memorizing  mes- 
sages to  take  to  my  illustrious  mother,  I 
was  talking  oil  to  a  lot  of  wooden  heads 
that  think  all  the  oil  in  the  country  has 


GOSSIP  FROM  HOME  251 

run  down  to  Texas ;  but  I  got  a  few  inter- 
ested, I  think.  Saw  the  usual  bunch  of 
fellows  at  the  club — Bill  Newland's  up 
from  Camp  Humphrey;  went  out  to 
Whitelaws'  for  dinner  one  night,  they're 
still  in  the  country;  saw  Judith  at  the 
theater  one  night;  Mrs.  Sangster  and  I 
sat  right  behind  her  and  Bill.  She's  thin 
— doesn't  look  so  well  as  she  did." 

"Neither  do  you,"  said  his  mother. 

He  accepted/  herv  meaning  without  sub- 
terfuge. 

"Well,  it's  a  .cinch  I'm  not  the  reason 
that  she's  wasting  away.  She's  going  to 
marry  Bill  in  the  spring." 

"I  wondered  if  you'd  hear  it.  She 
wrote  me  about  it  last  month." 

"Well,  why  in  the  name  of  God  didn't 
you  tell  me!"  the  words  burst  out  before 
he  could  think. 

"I  wanted  to ;  I  almost  did.  But  if  you 
remember,  you  were  rather  more  than  em- 
phatic last  June  about  my  keeping  every- 


252  A  THING  APAET 

thing  I  knew  about  Judith  to  myself.  And 
I  didn't  know  what  might  happen.  I 
haven't  answered  her  letter  yet.  I 
couldn't.  I'm  so  certain  that  she  loves 
you." 

Dane,  superlatively  intent  on  keeping 
the  roadster  in  the  narrow  dusty  road,  felt 
a  great  yearning  to  put  his  head  down  on 
that  small  shoulder  beside  him  and  be 
comforted  by  arms  as  tender  as  was  the 
caress  in  his  mother's  voice.  But  he  said 
only: 

"I  don't  think  she'd  marry  Bill,  if  she 
loved  me." 

"Oh!"  she  cried  out  furiously,  "she 
isn't  worth  your  sorrowing  over;  I  could 
murder  the  little  idiot; — to  marry  that 
great  stupid  Billy!" 

Dane  gave  an  incredulous  shout  and 
threw  a  rough  right  arm  about  her,  mak- 
ing her  cry  out  sharply,  so  fierce  was  his 
quick  hug. 

"By    golly,    mother,    you're    certainly 


GOSSIP  FROM  HOME  253 

coming  along!  You've — you've  evidently 
reversed  your  opinion.  Remember — ' 

He  left  his  sentence  unmade,  and  drove 
on  silently,  glad  that  she  did  not  take  up 
his  thought.  The  wind  blew  his  fine  heavy 
black  hair  back  from  his  forehead  and 
whipped  into  his  black  eyes,  so  that  he 
scowled  through  half-shut  lids.  His 
cheeks  were  slightly  liollowed,  as  they  had 
been  when  he  had  first  come  home  from 
the  French  hospital,  and  his  jaws  were 
more  firmly  set  than  ever,  though  less 
sullenly  so.  The  four  months  had  done 
good  things  to  his  soul  but  their  pain  had 
left  its  traces.  One  of  the  ranch  hands 
who  had  also  learned  the  song  of  the  Ger- 
man guns,  had  one  day  said  to  Mrs.  El- 
ridge,  seeing  her  eyes  perhaps  sorrowing 
over  her  son: 

"Don't  you  worry  about  him,  ma'am; 
he  just  ain't  quite  got  over  old  Thierry, 
yet.  That's  what  makes  that  listenin' 
look  in  his  eyes,  sometimes,-" 


254  A  THING  APART 

But  No-Man's  Land  had  held  less 
dreaded  loneliness  for  Dane,  than  the  long 
days  and  nights  of  emptiness  that  tor- 
tured him  with  mocking  memories  of 
Judith. 

"  You  felt  just  the  same — when  you  saw 
her?"  he  heard  his  mother  saying. 

"Oh,  yes.  That's  the  hell  of  it.  Why 
couldn't  she  marry  somebody  I  don't 
know?  But  all  my  life  I'll  go  on  seeing 
her,  and  hearing  people  talk  about  her, 
and  acting  just  as  I  should  to  any  wife  of 
Bill's,  no  matter  what  he  married.  It 
isn't  so  bad  at  the  time — when  I'm  seeing 
her,  but  afterward — it's  like  coming  out 
of  ether  into  hell. ' ' 

"I  know,  dear,"  said  his  mother  softly, 
and  added  after  a  small  silence:  "Love, 
real  love,  is  not  easily  made  a  l  thing 
apart.' 

He  gave  a  short  unamused  laugh  at  her 
apt  return  of  the  philosophy  he  had 
youthfully  preached  to  her. 


GOSSIP  FROM  HOME  255 

"Well,  I'll  do  it,  never  you  fear.  I'm 
not  fool  enough  to  think  there  aren't 
other  things  in  the  world  that  are  mighty 
worth  while." 

"Did  you  see  much  of  Mrs.  Sangster?" 
asked  his  mother,  as  if  accepting  his  blus- 
terful  statement  by  her  very  question. 

"Yes,"  he  said — sufficiently. 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  mentioned 
Mrs.  Sangster,  though  he  was  certain  that 
she  knew  he  heard  from  her  and  that  she 
must  be  sorely  puzzled  over  what,  to  her, 
was  an  unthinkable  situation.  Now,  he 
found  courage  to  say,  reddening: 

"Has  dad  written  you  anything  about 
her— lately?" 

"No;  I — I  think  he  spoke  some  time 
ago  of,  of  not  seeing  her." 

The  color  deepened  in  his  high  cheek- 
bones. 

"I've  an  idea,  that  is,  I  happen  to  know, 
that  we  were  both  mistaken  about  dad 
and  Mrs.  Sangster." 


256  A  THING  APART 

"Yes.  I  can  understand  that  we  must 
have  been."  The  queer  tightness  that 
took  hold  of  his  mother's  delicate  features 
made  him  more  sharply  aware  of  the  emo- 
tion she  was  concealing  than  of  her  actual 
words,  so  quietly  spoken. 

"Don't  hate  her,  mother,"  he  said  im- 
pulsively, "she — she  isn't  such  a  bad 
sort." 

"Why,  Dane,  I  don't;  I— I  even. . .  .it 
sounds  a  dreadful  thing  for  a  mother  to 
say,  but  I  don't  think  knowing  her  can 
ever  do  you  any  harm.  I  always  felt  there 
was  a  wonderful  kindness  about  the 
woman.  Even — even  under  the  condi- 
tions, I  didn't  hate  her." 

Dane  swallowed  several  times  before 
the  lump  in  his  throat  would  let  his  voice 
pass. 

"You're  a  real  brick,  mother;  it's 
deuced  hard  for  me  ever  to  say  anything 
but — but  you've  meant  a  heap  to  me." 

"And  you  to  me,  dear,"  she  said  only; 


GOSSIP  FROM  HOME  257 

and  after  a  time  they  fell  to  talking  hur- 
riedly of  little  things  that  did  not  matter, 
until  they  drove  up  to  the  big  log  ranch 
house  with  its  numerous  additions,  that 
looked,  from  the  hills  above,  like  a  huge 
brown  horned  toad  sunning  itself  in  an 
oasis  of  blue  grass  and  shivering  cotton- 
wood  trees. 

Dane's  room  was  a  great  square  place 
on  top  of  the  house,  built  over  the  exact 
center  of  the  otherwise  one-storied  struc- 
ture. It  had  three  wide  windows  in  each 
wall,  the  ones  on  the  west  looking  up 
through  ascending  corridors  of  brown 
hills  to  the  great  blue  Big  Horn  Moun- 
tains. It  was  the  first  room  Dane  had 
ever  grown  attached  to.  One  reached  it 
by  ascending  an  outside  stairway  fash- 
ioned clumsily  but  securely  of  fragrant 
old  pine  logs. 

His  mother  had  put  in  curtains  and 
cushions  and  cretonnes  of  brown  that  she 
and  Jennie  had  proudly  made  themselves ; 


258  A  THING  APART 

and  his  few  war  trophies  were  modestly 
hung  up  in  the  darkest  corner.  There 
had  been  a  picture  of  Judith  on  the  table 
— a  large  picture  of  her,  with  her  win- 
some happy  face  lit  so  warmly  by  its 
candid  eyes.  He  put  it  out  of  sight  the 
first  night  of  his  return. 

But — a  thing  apart? 

No  night  in  that  big  clean-aired  room 
had  Dane  found  sleep  unprefaced  by  long 
tortured  wakefulness.  No  day  of  all  the 
busy  days  had  passed  without  some  of  his 
men  noticing  that  "listenin'  look"  on  his 
stern  young  face. 

Long  into  the  night  of  his  homecoming, 
he  lay  looking  out  of  the  west  windows 
into  a  world  drunk  with  a  vast  stillness, 
living  and  reliving  that  night  at  the 
theater,  seeing  nothing  of  the  gay  glad 
crowd  except  Judith's  shoulder  touching 
Bill  Newland's,  meeting  her  surprised 
eyes  when  she  turned  and  saw  him,  suffer- 
ing under  their  instant's  wild  welcome  so 


GOSSIP  FROM  HOME  259 

quickly  veiled  with  indifference,  hearing 
her  careless,  "Why,  Dane,  you  globe-trot- 
ter; it's  awfully  nice  to  see  you — Billy 
said  you  were  in  town." 

Of  what  Mrs.  Sangster  had  said  that 
evening,  or  Newland,  or  himself,  he  re- 
membered nothing,  for  Judith's  few 
words  and  fewer  smiles  had  burned  all 
other  things  into  their  own  white 
memories. 

He  had  gone  to  New  York,  driven  by 
desire  of  Judith — if  only  to  see  her,  hear 
people  speak  of  her,  perhaps  talk  to  her. 
And  now,  he  was  back  again,  with  his 
fool's  errand  amply  proved.  She  had 
asked  him  about  his  ranching — care- 
lessly; she  had  spoken  of  his  mother's 
pictures — with  a  keen  gladness  that  was 
all  for  his  mother ;  and  she  had  said  once, 
turning  toward  Newland,  saying  it,  with 
her  hand  on  his  arm,  "Aunt  Ellen  has 
been  fretting  about  a  sweater  she's  made 
for  you.  I  think  she's  afraid  to  trust  it 


260  A  THING  APART 

to  the  mails.  Can  she  send  it  in  to  the 
club  for  you?" 

That  was  all,  just  little  careless  sense- 
less things  that  flaunted  their  inconse- 
quence maddeningly  in  his  mind.  But  as 
they  were  leaving  the  theater  she  had 
come  to  his  side  to  say  in  low  quick  tones : 

"Billy's  Uncle  Keith  told  Aunt  Ellen 
how  happy  your  mother  is  out  there  with 
you,  and — and  how  wonderful  you've 
been  to  her.  Oh,  Dane,  we're  so  glad." 

And  then  his  armor  of  determination 
failed  him — poor  weak  fool,  and  the  mis- 
ery in  his  heart  had  blurted  out  in  uncon- 
trollable, unthought  words.  He  did  not 
know  what  they  were,  but  she  had 
answered  in  quick  displeasure : 

"Dane!  Please  don't  make  a  scene 
here.  Certainly  I  do  not  blame  you — you 
can  not  help  being  as  you  are;  how  can 
you  dare — with  her — to  ask  me  if  I've 
changed  my  mind?" 

"Then  it  is  true — about  Bill?"  he  knew 
he  had  asked  her  that. 


GOSSIP  FROM  HOME  261 

"Yes;  perhaps  in  the  spring,"  she  had 
answered  defiantly.  And  then  the  others 
joined  them  and  they  parted,  laughingly. 

That  was  the  night  he  wrote  his  mother 
he  couldn't  stand  New  York  any  longer 
and  was  leaving  the  next  day.  In  the 
morning  his  father  had  casually  turned 
up  at  Grand  Central  to  see  him  off;  he 
had  even  walked  through  the  gates  with 
him  and  down  the  long  platform  to  Dane's 
Pullman.  Yet  there  had  been  no  weaken- 
ing of  the  restraint  between  them — no 
mention  in  any  way  of  the  things  that 
weighted  both  minds.  It  was  the  magnet 
of  enveloping  love — the  love  of  the  slen- 
der black-eyed  woman  who  had  made 
them  father  and  son,  that  was  drawing 
them,  irresistibly,  into  a  consciousness  of 
their  need  for  each  other. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  QUIET  COMING 

LESS  than  two  weeks  after  Dane's  re- 
tarn,  his  father  arrived  at  the  Bar 
Three  ranch.  The  afternoon  had  been  hot 
and  sunny;  one  of  summer's  left-over 
days,  and  Dane  rode  in,  dusty  and  tired, 
from  the  site  where  he  hoped  to  build  his 
great  reservoir.  The  two  eastern  engi- 
neers he  had  taken  with  him,  and  whom 
he  had  later  put  on  the  east-bound  train, 
had  been  enthusiastic  over  the  project  and 
Dane's  mind  was  pleasantly  weary  from 
its  vast  conjecturing,  when  he  gladly 
threw  himself  full  length  on  the  comfort- 
able couch  in  the  living-room.  The  room 
was  empty,  warmed  by  a  noisy  pine  log 
fire  in  the  cavernous  fireplace. 

262 


THE  QUIET  COMING  263 

Presently  his  mother  came  in,  carrying 
a  vase  of  water  and  some  red  dahlias.  She 
did  not  notice  him  lying  there.  Setting 
the  vase  on  the  table  in  the  center  of  the 
long  room,  she  began  arranging  the 
flowers.  She  would  put  one  blossom  in 
the  vase,  and  then,  as  if  the  small  effort 
wearied  her,  she  would  stand  quiet,  look- 
ing at  it.  Then  she  would  take  another 
flower,  carefully  place  it,  and  rest. 

"What  a  little  thing  she  is,"  thought 
Dane,  indolently  watching  her. 

She  wore  a  blue  serge  gown,  skilfully 
cut  on  straight  youthful  lines,  with  a 
round  collarless  throat  and  a  narrow  belt 
that  twice  circled  her  waist  and  tied  at 
one  side,  ending  in  some  sort  of  colorful 
beads.  Her  soft  gray,  simply  coiffured 
hair  had  lost  all  traces  of  artificiality  and 
her  features,  delicate  sometimes  to  sharp- 
ness, had  taken  on  a  certain  fulness. 
Long  deep  breaths  lifted  her  sloping 
shoulders. 


264  A  THING  APART 

" Something's  happened/'  Dane's  in- 
tuition told  him. 

She  seemed  to  fill  the  room — not  by  the 
presence  of  her  small  body  but  by  an  es- 
caping intensity  of  feeling  as  all-pervad- 
ing as  a  fragrance  or  a  vibrating  sound. 

"Well,  mother,  spread  the  glad  tidings; 
get  good  news  about  your  cow  path?"  he 
asked  her.  The  "cow  path"  was  her  last 
picture,  merely  a  narrow  twisting  path 
on  a  brown  hillside,  lost  after  long  wan- 
dering, in  a  hot  light  blue  sky. 

She  started  slightly  at  the  sound  of  his 
unexpected  voice. 

"Oh,  no;  I  haven't  had  time  to  hear 
from  it  yet.  I  didn't  know  you'd  come  in. " 

"What  is  the  news,  then?" 

"What  a  wizard  you  are !  What  makes 
you  think  there's  news?" 

"Oh,  I'm  getting  to  be  a  regular  mind- 
reader;  whenever  you  make  me  think  of 
a  large  quiet  firecracker  with  the  fuse  lit, 
I  know  something's  happened." 


THE  QUIET  COMING  265 

She  laughed — a  sound  he  never  forgot 
— a  low  throaty  sound  far  beyond  the 
realms  of  mirth  or  pleasure — a  sound  of 
fulfillment,  of  unbelievable  joy;  a  thing 
of  the  soul  rather  than  of  the  body.  He 
felt  the  exceeding  effort  she  put  forth  to 
appear  unemotional,  matter-of-fact. 

"Your  father's  here;  he's  bathing  and 
dressing  for  dinner.  I — I  'm  very  happy. ' ' 

He  always  remembered  her  as  she  stood 
there  by  the  table,  facing  him,  a  few 
ragged  dahlias  in  her  hands,  and  her  deep 
black  eyes  like  long  darkened  pools  sud- 
denly touched  with  sunlight.  Silently 
and  without  volition,  he  got  up  from  the 
couch  and  started  toward  her  and  she 
dropped  the  flowers  in  her  path  as  she 
went  across  the  long  room  to  meet  him. 
Hugging  her  close,  he  bent  and  kissed 
her  cheek,  which,  though  it  was  queerly 
pale,  burned  feverishly  hot  against  his 
wind-roughened  lips. 

With  his  impulsive  tenderness  came  the 


266  A  THING  APART 

old  embarrassment  that  emotion  had  al- 
ways bred  in  him.  He  loosed  her  almost 
roughly,  muttering  a  brusk,  ''Well,  it's 
time  you  got  some  fun  out  of  life;  I'll 
chase  up  and  dress  now,  I  guess,"  and 
without  looking  at  her  he  bolted  out  of 
the  room. 

He  was  vastly  and  thankfully  relieved 
at  dinner  to  find  that  an  inexplicable  len- 
ity had  eased  the  restraint  he  had 
expected  would  exist  between  them — a 
staggering  proof  of  love's  power  to  un- 
ravel lifetime  tangles  once  it  set  about  it. 
It  was  past  human  conception  to  think  of 
his  father  as  anything  other  than  coolly 
composed  and  imperturbable,  but  he 
seemed  to  have  emerged  from  a  veneer  of 
stoical  indifference  that  uncovered  the 
charm  he  had  seldom  bothered  to  display 
to  his  own  family.  And  he  was  older — 
where  before  he  had  seemed  strangely 
ageless,  he  had  become  suddenly  middle 
aged. 


THE  QUIET  COMING  267 

Old  Jennie  served  them,  looking,  when 
her  eyes  rested  on  Mr.  Elridge,  as  Dane 
imagined  she  might  look  were  the  myster- 
ies of  infinity  unveiled  before  her  awed 
but  skeptical  gaze.  All  through  dinner 
they  talked  extravagantly  of  impersonal 
things — of  where  their  friends  were  and 
what  they  were  doing — of  the  ouija-board 
craze — of  alfalfa  and  oil  wells  and  the 
Peace  Treaty. 

In  fact  they  "  visited " — a  thing  that 
had  never  happened  before;  they  visited 
together  as  naturally  as  if  they  had  been 
a  family  given  to  intimacies  and  careless 
comfortable  chatter  of  the  day's  doings, 
instead  of  three  alien  house  dwellers  who, 
if  there  were  not  guests,  quickly  found 
oblivion  in  reading,  or  went  hastily  to 
their  different  diversions. 

After  dinner  Dane  left  his  father  and 
mother  together  on  the  west  porch,  for  the 
evening  was  warm  and  pungently  fragrant 
of  frost-touched  alfalfa  fields ;  seemingly 


268  A  THING  APART 

one  of  summer's  truant  days  had  come 
wandering  on  lazy  feet  into  October's 
calendar. 

But  "he  was  restless — lonely.  After  a 
little  time  he  came  back  to  them,  settling 
down  two  steps  below  his  mother,  leaning 
back  lightly  against  her  knees  and  she 
let  her  hand  lie  idly  on  his  shoulder.  He 
knew  that  he  had  interrupted  words  that 
had  meant  much  to  her  for  he  could  hear 
her  breath  fluttering  like  a  moth  beating 
its  wings  to  tatters  against  a  sunny  win- 
dow. His  heart  was  greatly  glad  for  her. 
Urged  by  a  sympathetic  impulse,  he 
tipped  his  head  to  one  side  so  that  he  em- 
braced her  hand  between  his  cheek  and 
shoulder.  He  grinned  a  little  in  the  deep- 
ening dusk  to  think  of  his  stoical  father 
learning  to  express  humility,  and  his  old 
trench  pipe  seemed  especially  satisfactory 
as  he  drew  deeply  of  its  pleasure. 

"You  two  seem  to  have  a  pretty  close 
corporation,"  remarked  his  father,  in  a 


THE  QUIET  COMING  269 

tone  peculiarly  not  his  own,  perhaps  not 
quite  freed  from  what  he  had  been  saying. 

" We've  had  some  good  days  out  here, 
and  dreamed  some  big  dreams,  haven't 
we,  mother  ?"  Dane  said  in  lazy  explana- 
tion. "You  see,  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
mother,  I'd  never  have  inherited  Grand- 
mother Stillman's  money,  and  so  I'd  never 
have  had  this  flock  of  hills.  And  I  like 
'em.  I  get  all  sorts  of  kick  out  of  just  sit- 
ting and  looking  at  .'em  and  thinking,  'By 
golly,  you  runt  of  a  mountain,  you  belong 
to  me!'  I'll  cover  'em  all  with  green, 
some  day,  and  pump  oil  out  of  every  one 
of  'em." 

This  was  an  astounding  gasconade  to 
come  from  Dane's  practical  lips,  and  he 
laughed  with  a  slight  consciousness  as  he 
went  on  to  ask,  "What's  that  verse  in  the 
Bible  about  hills,  mother?" 

"I  will  lift  up  mine  eyes  to  the  hills, 
from  whence  cometh  my  help." 

It  seemed  to  Dane  that  his  mother's 


270  A  THING  APART 

voice  was  stiller  than  the  silence  of  the 
night.  He  twisted  his  head  to  look  inquir- 
ingly up  at  her  and  she  smiled  at  him 
through  the  dusk.  It  was  almost  dark  and 
a  chill  was  creeping,  catlike,  up  from  the 
creek. 

"Well,"  said  his  father  carelessly,  "I 
don't  want  to  force  myself  into  your  hill 
corporation  but  if  it  hadn't  been  for  me 
you  might  not  have  had  your  mother,  nor 
your  grandmother  nor  your  hills." 

"Oh,  sure,"  Dane  retorted  impulsively, 
"we  expected  you  to  jump  right  in  and 
vote  yourself  president;  but  at  that,  we're 
a  pretty  close  corporation." 

"N-o,  I'm  contented  to  be  a  minority 
stockholder.  I  think  your  mother's  the 
president  and  secretary  and  treasurer." 
His  voice  took  on  a  certain  gravity  and 
weight  of  meaning  that  filled  Dane  in- 
stantly with  discomfort.  Now  that  he 
had  succeeded  in  weaning  his  mother 
away  from  sentiment,  had  his  hitherto  in- 


THE  QUIET  COMING  271 

vulnerable  father  been  bitten  in  the  heel  1 
But  the  older  man  cleared  his  throat — of 
nothing,  and  said  no  more.  However 
strongly  any  regrets  or  emotion  might 
have  awakened  in  his  heart,  they  were  im- 
pregnably  fortified  there  against  expres- 
sion. 

"I  was  just  asking  your  mother  if  she'd 
consider  going  back  with  me  for  a  little 
visit,"  Mr.  Elridge  resumed  in  his  usual, 
pleasantly  modulated  voice. 

"Not  on  your  life,  dad,"  put  in  Dane 
quickly,  amusedly  relieved,  "this  ranch 
couldn't  run  without  some  one  to  paint 
pictures  of  it;  these  cow  paths  and  cor- 
rals have  got  to  be  exhibited  in  foreign 
galleries — they've  only  reached  New  York 
so  far.  I  vote  that  mother  stays  right 
here  until  everybody  throws  away  their 
Corots  and  buys  views  of  the  Bar  Three 
ranch.  Besides,  by  golly,  I  need  her!  Be 
a  deuce  of  a  lonesome  place  here." 

"Yes,"   commented  his  father   dryly, 


272  A  THING  APART 

"your  last  argument  coincides  with  mine. 
I  need  her,  too.  What's  the  verdict, 
Jane?" 

In  the  silence  that  followed  his  father's 
overly  careless  question,  they  heard  the 
dry  cottonwood  leaves  whispering  in  the 
dark ;  and  the  sharp  shrilling  cry  of  a  red 
winged,  black  bird,  no  doubt  disturbed  by 
some  prowling  wild  thing,  shook  the  still- 
ness, echoingly.  It's  eerie  unexpectedness 
made  Dane  start  and  his  abrupt  move- 
ment away  from  his  mother's  knees 
loosed  her  from  the  posture  in  which  she 
had  been  braced  between  his  back  and  the 
porch  post.  Stabbed  by  a  strange  divin- 
ing of  her  silence,  he  turned  just  in  time 
to  have  her  slip  gently — such  a  tiny 
crumpled  burden — into  his  arms. 

"Call  Jennie she's  fainted Call 

Jennie,"  he  commanded. 

Mr.  Elridge,  unfamiliar  in  the  dark- 
ness, fumbled  for  the  door-latch,  his  one 
echoing  shout  bringing  the  old  servant 


THE  QUIET  COMING  273 

hastening  to  the  door,  a  lamp  perilously 
rocking  in  her  upheld  hand. 

"This  horseback  riding's  been  too  much 
for  her,"  he  muttered  as  he  held  the  door 
open  for  Dane  to  pass.  Jennie  gave  him 
one  swift-covering  glance,  just  as  she  had 
done  months  before  on  that  hot  day  in 
June,  but  her  words  fell  with  lesser 
venom : 

"The  doctors  has  said  often  enough  it's 
not  things  that  hurts  her  body  that — that 
makes  her  faint."  Somehow  her  gesture 
forbade  his  entering  with  them  and  he 
stayed  outside  in  the  darkness  while  Dane 
strode  through  the  rambling  house  to  the 
south  bedroom,  casting  a  weird  shapeless 
shadow  before  him  from  Jennie's  follow- 
ing lamp. 

With  her  great  dark  eyes  closed,  his 
mother's  face  seemed  strangely  not  her 
own.  Dane  had  not  been  frightened,  as 
he  had  before,  but  now  a  sudden  terror 
took  him.  "What '11  I  do,  Jennie — 


274  A  THING  APART 

quick!"  tie  demanded.  "Oh,  why  in  the 
devil  didn't  I  have  that  lighting  plant  put 
in  last  month ;  curse  these  clammy  lamps. 
What'll  I  do?" 

Jennie,  in  the  four  months,  had  become 
his  slowly  forgiving  friend ;  now,  she  said 
soothingly  from  the  medicine  closet: 

"Don't  get  excited,  Mr.  Dane,  put  her 
head  low — that's  right.  Go  out  and  tell 
Ching  to  heat  the  big  copper  kettle  of 
water  and  bring  it  to  me.  You  run  along. 
I'll  put  her  to  bed.  She's  better,  alone." 

Dane  stood  motionless,  gazing  down  at 
the  small  quiet  figure  laid  so  straight 
on  the  bed.  The  fluttering  lamplight  cast 
fulvid  shadows  over  her  slender  face  and 
he  thought  again  of  his  old  fancy  that  she 
looked  like  one  of  the  pressed  flowers 
often  fluttering  from  her  books.  He  felt 
a  childish  frenzy  of  desire  to  have  her 
open  her  eyes. 

"Jennie  I — does  she  always  look  like 
this?" 


THE  QUIET  COMING  275 

"Yes.  Go  on,  Mr.  Dane,  tell  Ching  I 
want  that  water  quick." 

After  lie  had  set  the  complacent  Ching 
into  a  remarkable  demonstration  of 
Chinese  speed,  Dane  went  out  to  his 
father  whose  cigar  leered,  one-eyedly,  out 
of  the  darkness. 

"Is  she  conscious?" 

"No."  Dane  leaned  against  the  post 
and  stared  out  into  the  night  until  the 
mountains  finally  established  their  gigan- 
tic heights  against  the  unstarred  sky.  * '  It 
must  be  going  to  rain,"  he  said  after  a 
time. 

His  father  got  up  and  stood  by  the 
other  porch  post.  "Is  this  the  first  time 
she's  fainted  since  you  came  out?" 

"Yes.  Why  didn't  you  telegraph  us? 
You  knew  about  her  heart." 

"Oh!  You  don't  think— why  it  didn't 
occur  to  me.  I  thought  I'd  like  to  drop  in 
on  you  just  as  you  were  every  day.  If 
I'd  had  any  idea — " 


276  A  THING  APART 

Dane's  whole  being  was  welling  with  a 
ctull  resentment,  almost  an  impersonal 
feeling,  and  he  said  slowly  in  a  passionless 
unbittered  voice: 

"Oh,  you  wouldn't  have  any  idea  about 
anything  but  yourself — but  what  you  hap- 
pened to  ^ant.  You  ought  to  have  mar- 
ried Medusa — she  might  have  been  able 
to  get  your  mind  off  yourself  occa- 
sionally." 

His  father  said  nothing.  Dane  was 
quickly  and  horribly  ashamed. 

"I'm  sorry,  dad.  I  didn't  mean  to  go 
off  like  that;  but  she's  been  so  well;  I — I 
hate—" 

"I  should  have  telegraphed,"  his 
father  inserted  in  a  coldly  mechanical 
voice,  "you  needn't  apologize.  You 
needn't  apologize  to  me — ever,  about 
anything.  I  realize  there  are  many  things 
I  have  done  and  have  not  done  which  are 
not  to  my  credit.  I  realize  that  you  have 
rectified  them  for  me  in  so  far  as  you 


THE  QUIET  COMING  277 

could.  I  think  it's  due  your  mother  that 
I  should  say  so  to  you  as  well  as  to  her. 
In  the  future  it  will  be — different." 

Confusion  sharper  than  knife  wounds 
bore  down  on  Dane;  had  he  been  able  to 
find  his  voice  he  could  not  have  found 
words  to  put  in  it.  So  they  stood  there 
together,  silent.  And  Dane  knew  that 
he  should  love  his  father  after  this,  as  he 
had  often  envied  other  sons  and  fathers 
their  love  of  each  other. 

Then,  cutting  the  silence  like  a  merci- 
less weapon,  old  Jennie's  cry  thrust  itself 
into  the  night. 

1 1  Mr.  Dane  \    Mr.  D-ane ! ' ' 

Dane  felt  his  father's  hand  grip  his 
arm,  but  he  threw  it  off,  calling  back, 
"Telephone  Sage  City  for  the  doctor,"  as 
he  ran  through  the  long  living-room.  But 
he  knew  quite  simply  and  surely,  that  his 
mother  was  dead.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
he  had  known  it  since  he  had  first  put  her 
out  of  his  arms. 


CHAPTEB  XIII 

DON'T  YOU  WANT  MB 

THEEE  weeks  from  that  night  of  death's 
quiet  coming,  Dane  was  back  again  at  the 
Bar  Three  ranch.  It  was  November  now, 
• — a  month  of  incomparable  majesty  in  the 
western  hills  where  no  sacrifices  ar& 
made  to  autumn  except  a  few  yellow  cot- 
tonwood  leaves  which  are  so  soon  chewed 
to  dust  by  the  singing  winds.  In  all  the 
world  there  is  no  greater  loneliness,  nor 
yet  greater  content  if  love  is  there. 

The  night  was  like  a  frozen  day  in  the 
quietness  of  its  clear  sparkling  moon- 
light. Dane  drew  the  curtains  early — the 
first  time  they  had  ever  been  drawn, 
pulled  the  couch  out  in  front  of  the  fire, 
and  placed  the  tall  lamp  at  its  head  so 
278 


DON'T  YOU  WANT  MB  279 

that  lie  might  read  the  piles  of  journals 
lying  on  the  tabourette  beside  him.  He 
took  one  up  and  opened  it  but  soon  put  it 
back  and  lay  watching  and  listening  to 
the  noisy  fire.  Jennie  moved  solidly  and 
complacently  in  and  out  of  the  room;  he 
wondered  if  she  knew  he  liked  to  hear  her 
bustling  about,  mumbling,  he  supposed  to 
angels,  in  that  queer  way  of  hers.  He  had 
been  immensely  glad  when  she  had  an- 
nounced her  intention  of  returning  with 
him. 

On  one  of  her  pilgrimages  into  the 
room  she  dropped  an  ash-tray,  making 
vast  apologies. 

"Oh,  never  mind,  Jennie,"  he  silenced 
her,  "I'd  rather  you'd  break  everything 
in  the  place  than  have  it  so  damned  still. " 

"It  does  seem  awful  still,  don't  if?" 
she  hastened  into  conversation.  "I  guess 
it's  the  feeling  of  fall.  You  never  did  like 
it  quiet,  anyhow.  When  you  was  a  baby, 
you  always  slept  better  if  there  was  a 


280  A  THING  APART 

/ 

racket  around  you.  Why  don't  you  send 
for  that  foreman  man  to  come  up  and  talk 
a  while;  thinkin' — times  like  this,  don't 
do  any  good." 

"N-o,  I  guess  you're  right;  it's  a  little 
late  to  begin  thinking  now.  Jennie,  what 
do  you  really  think  made  mother  go — like 
that?" 

Jennie's  answer  was  sure  and  swift, 
exultant  and  unsorrowing.  She  came 
around  by  the  fire  to  emphasize  her  con- 
victions by  definite  gestures  with  a  piece 
of  the  broken  ash-try. 

"It  was  her  time  to  go,  Mr.  Dane ;  don't 
have  any  doubts  about  that — her  time. 
An'  what's  more,  it  was  a  beautiful  time! 
She  was  so  happy  that  day  that  when  I 
fastened  up  her  dress  I  felt  like  the  snap- 
pers had  electric  sparks  in  'em.  An'  she 
said  to  me — you  know  her  and  your 
father  had  a  long  talk  before  you  came 
home, — an'  she  said  to  me,  l Jennie,  it's 
very  wonderful  when  you've  tried  to  do 


DON'T  YOU  WANT  ME  281 

your  best  all  your  life  and  thought  you'd 
failed  in  spite  of  it,  to  find — you  haven't/ 
Now  maybe,  Mr.  Dane,  she  couldn't  have 
gone  on  beta'  that  happy  always  an' — " 

"Yes,  she  could,  Jennie,"  he  put  in 
heavily,  "that's  it — she  could  have." 

A  very  gentle  smile  touched  Jennie's 
thin  lips,  as  she  looked  down  at  him. 

"W-ell,  maybe,  Mr.  Dane,  maybe;  but 
I  reckon  God  knew  best.  But  I've  my 
reasons  for  thinking  your  mother  felt 
maybe  she  wasn't  going  to  live  very  long. 
She  said  to  me  one  day  just  after  you 
come  back  from  New  York,  l  Jennie,  if 
anything  should  happen  to  me,  I  want  you 
always  to  pray  for  Dane  every  night!' 
She  and  I  didn't  pray  the  same  as  each 
other,  but  I'm  prayin'  for  you,  my  way, 
the  best  I  know  how." 

"Why — why,  thank  you,  Jennie,"  stam- 
mered Dane,  deeply  touched  by  the  old 
woman's  solemn  confidence.  "I  hope  you 
can  pray  oil  into  these  hills." 


282  A  THING  APART 

"Oh,  I  don't  bother  about  them  kind  of 
things.  I  pray  that  you'll  be  a  good  man 
— I  mean,  keep  on  being  a  good  man,  and 
that"-— she  gasped  an  instant  hesitating 
and  then  finished,  greatly  daring — 
"you'll  marry  Judith  Kingston." 

"Hurih  f"  For  a  second  he  was  sharply 
angered  by  her  impertinence;  then  he 
surrendered  to  the  relief  of  speaking 
about  Judith,  hearing  of  her,  mentioning 
her  name.  "Well,  Jennie,  there's  no  use 
your  wasting  good  prayers.  Miss  Kings- 
ton's going  to  marry  Major  Newland  in 
the  spring.  Didn't  you  know  it?" 

Jennie  sat  down  in  a  small  rocker  and 
began  rocking  back  and  forth  with  a  vigor 
that  only  providence  restrained  from 
creating  catastrophe.  "Spring's  a  long 
way  off,  Mr.  Dane ;  I — I  just  been  biding 
my  time  to  talk  to  you  a  little  about  this. 
I  know  Judith  Kingston  almost  's  well  's 
I  know  you.  An'  I  watched  her  pretty 
dose  all  the  time  she  and  Mrs.  Lawson 


DON'T  YOU  WANT  ME  283 

was  at  the  house  getting  ready  for  the 
funeral.  I  may  be  an  old  maid  an'  all, 
but  I've  kept  my  eye  open  on  other  folks 
an'  I  know  love  when  I  see  it.  An'  that 
girl  loves  you,  Mr.  Dane,  just  as  sure" — > 
she  poised  on  the  front  tip  of  the  rockers 
— "just  as  sure  as  I  sit  here." 

She  waited  for  him  to  speak  but  only  a 
queer  tight  grin  answered  her,  so  she  re- 
sumed her  rocking. 

"An'  that  day  they  went  back  to  Long 
Island  I  made  bold  to  say  to  her,  'Miss 
Judith,  Dane  Elridge  is  an  awful  fine 
young  man;  I'm  afraid  you're  makin'  a 
very  serious  mistake  not  to  marry  the  man 
you  love.'  She  paused  again,  tipped 
forward  at  a  perilous  angle,  and  looking 
in  her  slippery  black  silk  dress  rather  like 
a  trained  sea  lion  performing  miraculous 
feats  of  sitting  upon  nothing.  To  Dane, 
watching  her  through  half-closed  lids,  she 
seemed  oddly  beautiful — this  old  grim 
woman  who  was  so  earnestly  "carrying 


284  A  THING  APART 

(       P 

on"  Ms  mother's  love  and  prayers  for 
him. 

"An',"  she  went  on,  a  trifle  less  as- 
suredly, "an'  naturally  she  was  some  sur- 
prised, she  said  something  about  trust 
between  two  people  being  able  to  grow 
love  but  that  love  couldn't  live  without 
trust;  but — but  she  never  denied  she 
loved  you." 

Dane  cleared  his  throat  and  smiled  into 
the  wrinkled-wise  old  face;  she  could 
have  uttered  no  words  more  livening  to 
his  pain. 

"Yes,  she  may  love  me,  Jennie,"  he  ad- 
mitted quietly,  "but  that's  no  argument 
in  this  case.  Be  better  to  pray  that  I  can 
get  her  out  of  my  mind.  Say,  did  that 
other  trunk  get  here  to-day?" 

She  accepted  his  dismissal  impassively 
and  pushed  her  ample  figure  slowly  out 
of  the  small  chair,  turning  the  big  lamp 
down  a  little  as  she  went  by  it. 

"Yes;  I  unpacked  it;  I  put  the  things 


DON'T  YOU  WANT  ME  285 

I  didn't  know  what  to  do  with,  on  the 
shelf  in  your  closet.  I'd  read  a  little  now, 
if  I  was  you." 

"Yes,  I  will,  Jennie.  Good  night." 
But  before  she  was  out  of  the  room,  he 
was  back  in  their  old  Tarrytown  house — 
a  house  strangely  undarkened,  with  no 
crepe  on  the  door.  His  mother's  body  lay 
in  the  south  drawing-room  where  the  sun 
came  in  and  rested  with  autumn  gentle- 
ness about  the  flower  banked  coffin.  It 
was  there  beside  that  coffin,  that  he  had 
spoken,  alone,  to  Judith  for  the  only  time 
during  the  days  that  she  lived  in  his  own 
house,  when  he  had  watched  her  doing  the 
things  for  his  mother  that  she  would  have 
done  had  she  been  his  wife.  For  she  and 
Aunt  Lawson,  the  women  his  mother  most 
loved,  had  taken  care  of  the  flowers,  the 
telegrams,  the  messages;  had  seen  the 
friends — the  old  friends,  and  the  countless 
unassuming,  unknown  friends  of  hers  who 
came  with  shy  courage  to  offer  the  horn- 


286  A  THING  APAKT 

age  of  their  love  and  sorrow.  For  his 
mother's  death  had  been  like  pulling  up 
a  vine  whose  myriad  tendrils  had  crept 
unnoticed,  but  surely  and  securely,  into  a 
thousand  hidden  places,  where  she  had 
helped,  quietly,  some  struggling  life,  or 
eased  some  sorrow.  Her  life  had  been 
almost  as  quiet  a  thing  as  was  her  death, 
a  quietness  they  had  as  little  understood 
as  death. 

Dane  had  been  thinking  of  that  as  he 
stood  beside  her  bed  of  blossoms  on  the 
morning  that  Judith  came  into  the  room, 
not  knowing  him  there.  He  looked  and 
saw  her  hesitate  the  merest  moment ;  then 
she  came  softly  to  his  side. 

He  felt  her  sympathy;  knew  that  she 
loved  him. 

"Judith — can  you  doubt  that  I  love 
you,  when  I  tell  you  so  beside  her,  here?" 

A  tremor  quivered  over  her  tall  still 
body,  and  the  slight  color  that  was  in  her 
cheeks  left  them  completely. 


DON'T  YOU  WA^TT  ME  287 

"I  believe  that  you  love  me,  Dane,"  she 
whispered. 

"And  still  you  won't  marry  me?" 

"Must  you  ask  this — here?" 

"She  knows  how  I  love  you;  she  felt 
you  loved  me ;  can  you  deny  it?" 

"No,"  she  said  aloud  in  a  clear  voice, 
lifting  her  face  to  his,  so  strengthened 
with  pain-born  resolve  that  any  poor  hope 
in  his  heart  died  eternally.  "Perhaps 
here  I  can  make  you  understand.  Your 
father  loved  your  mother — we  all  know 
it,  now  that  he  suffers.  What  has  she  had 
from  that  love  ?  What  have  you,  her  son, 
had  fVom  it?  If  I  married  you  my  love 
would  overpower  my  strength  of  will. 
But  now,  I  can  be  strong.  I  love  you — 
but  I  shall  make  it  the  love  of  a  friend.  I 
know  your  mother  would  understand." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  soul  deep  bitterness  in 
his  low  vibrating  voice,  "perhaps  she 
would  understand — both  of  us.  She  was 
better  at  understanding  than  you  or  I." 


288  A  THING  APAET 

He  turned  away  from  her  and  Judith 
left  him  standing  there  beside  his  mother. 
And  after  that  he  had  spoken  to  Judith 
with  the  tongue  of  a  stranger. 

It  was  as  his  mother  had  told  him; 
Judith  was  of  the  new  generation  of 
women,  strong  in  the  resolve  not  to  let 
love  ravage  all  other  values  in  life,  and — 
oh,  deepest  irony,  she  was  an  unswerving 
exponent  of  the  very  philosophy  with 
which  he  had,  blunderingly  and  boyishly, 
but  with  odd  fortune,  sought  to  rebuild 
his  mother's  life. 

Lying  there  by  the  chattering  fire,  his 
reason  and  his  bitterness  tortured  his 
brain  with  their  unceasing  battle .... 
"She's  a  coward,  afraid  to  follow  her 
love ....  she 's  not  a  coward,  it  takes  deeper 
courage  to  repel  love  than  to  follow  it .... 

"She's  selfish,  thinking  only  of  her 
surety,  her  happiness,  her  well  being .... 
She's  not  thinking  only  of  herself;  it's  I 
who  am  doing  that ;  she's  thinking  of  both 
of  us,  later  on — and  children 


DON'T  YOU  WANT  ME  289 

"If  her  love  were  like  mine  she'd  trust 
me,  she  wouldn't  be  suspicious. . .  .ah,  but 
what  surety  can  I  give  her,"  argued  his 
reason.  "I  did  take  the  easiest  way  to 
f orgetf ulness . . . . but,  why  not1?. ..  .why 
not  ?....!  wanted  only  her  ....only 
her...." 

At  midnight  he  went  up-stairs  to  bed, 
but  the  stillness  smothered  him  and  would 
not  let  him  sleep.  Once  a  coyote  howled, 
and  went  unanswered;  probably  some 
poor  mateless  thing  whose  mate  the  ranch 
dogs  had  killed.  Its  futile  desolate  cry, 
by  a  queer  crossing  of  mental  paths,  made 
Dane  think  of  his  father's  face  as  it  had 
come  to  look  in  these  last  weeks.  Echoing 
in  through  the  hills  throbbed  the  swift 
coming  "Flier"  speeding  through  the  si- 
lence of  the  night  like  some  infernal  ser- 
pent whose  Gorgon  breathing,  pulsing 
nearer  and  nearer  in  steady  rhythm,  sent 
Dane  into  restless  sleeping.  When  its 
scream  of  fury  cut  the  stillness  at  Sage 


290  A  THING  APAET 

City,  it  brought  Dane  jagged  dreams  of 
broken  fences,  cattle  on  the  track. . . . 
danger.  . .  .Judith  riding  to  her  death, 
calling  to  him  "Dane!  Dane!". . .  .but  he 
could  do  nothing ....  nothing ....  only  see 
her ....  hear  her  calling  him ....  and  could 

do  nothing there  was  Bill  Newland 

....  yes,  Bill  saving  her ....  though  she 
called  "Dane!". . .  .what  a  horrible  thing 
to  stand  there  and  do  nothing ....  but,  no, 
it  was  not  he ;  it  was  his  father  standing 
. . .  .standing.  . .  .standing  by  his  mother's 
flowered  coffin,  his  face  eaten  with 
remorse  while  Keith  Newland  triumphed 
over  him  with  his  quiet  pitying  eyes .... 
Still,  there  was  that  call,  "Dane!  Dane!" 

It  was  Judith's  voice! 

Dane  sat  up  in  bed,  his  body  pricking 
hotly  as  if  pierced  with  innumerable  tiny 
pins.  "Oh,  damn  me,"  he  muttered 
wearily,  "I'll  soon  go  nuts  at  this  rate." 

And  then  the  voice  came  again.  ' '  Dane ! 
Dane!" 


DON'T  YOU  WANT  ME  291 

This  time,  knowing  himself  awake,  he 
sat  up  and  swung  his  feet  to  the  cold 
floor,  sitting  there  tense  and  breathless. 
He  tried  to  say i  l  Who  is  it  ?  "  Instead,  he 
uttered  a  thick  and  guttural  "  Ju — dith?" 

"Yes.  I — I've  come,"  came  a  quick 
broken  answer.  "It's  I." 

"Why,  I'm  in  bed,"  the  words  came 
from  an  utter  vacancy  of  mind.  If  the 
stars  in  the  serene  sky  had  suddenly 
taken  on  frivolous  legs  of  moonlight  and 
come  down  to  dance  in  the  sage-brush,  he 
would  have  been  less  mystified.  With  a 
mighty  mental  effort  he  again  gathered 
words. 

"I'm  in  bed,"  he  repeated  with  heavy 
solemnity. 

"I — I  suppose  you  are.  Get  out  of  bed. 
Put  on  your — your  bathrobe." 

He  tied  his  bathrobe  about  him  with 
unsteady  hands  and  after  repeated  at- 
tempts succeeded  in  getting  his  feet  into 
their  respective  slippers. 


292  A  THING  APART 

" There's  no  one  here  but  the  servants," 
his  groping  mind  fumbled  conventionally. 

"Oh,  yes,  there  are.  Aunt  Ellen's  here 
and  Uncle  Jim  and  your  father.  Aren't 
you  pi-ease  going  to  open  the  door  ?  Aunt 
Ellen's  counting  every  minute  I'm  here." 

Dane's  mind  grappled  helplessly  with 
her  words  and  succumbed  again  to 
vacuity.  He  somehow  got  to  the  big 
barred  door  and  after  several  lifetimes  of 
blinded  effort,  pulled  the  bar  back  and 
slowly  swung  it  open  to  find  that  the 
small  square  landing  outside  had  become 
indeed  an  area  of  heaven.  Judith  wore 
a  long  soft  traveling  coat  that  followed 
caressingly  the  lines  of  her  tall  figure,  and 
her  rumpled  hair  with  the  moonlight 
shining  through  it  made  a  halo  of  loveli- 
ness about  her  pale  tired  face.  He  stood 
still  looking  at  her. 

"What  are. . .  .you  do.  .ing  here?"  he 
jerked  out. 

"Why,  I've  just  come;  don't  you  want 
me?" 


DON'T  YOU  WANT  ME  293 

"Y-es,  I  want  you,"  he  said  slowly;  he 
could  not  move. 

With  a  little  cry  of  tenderness,  she 
rushed  to  him  and  put  her  arms  up  around 
his  neck.  As  her  beloved  body  pressed 
close  against  him,  he  sobbed  out  hoarsely 
and  drew  her  into  arms  that  hurt  her  with 
their  welcome.  His  lips  found  tears  on 
her  cheeks,  but  on  her  answering  lips  was 
ecstasy.  Madness,  delightful  delirious 
madness  was  surely  upon  him ;  his  heart- 
beats were  agony;  his  head  throbbed. 
Judith  drew  a  little  out  of  his  close  em- 
brace, snuggled  one  hand  under  the  collar 
of  his  bathrobe  and  caressed  his  hot  puls- 
ing throat  with  her  smooth  cool  palm. 

"Oh,  Dane,  dearest, — what  if  your 
father  hadn't  come?"  she  whispered,  as  if 
still  fearful  of  what  might  have  been. 

"My  father my  father?"  he  par- 
roted. "My  father?" 

"Wait."  She  slipped  past  him  and 
gathered  up  a  heavy  blanket  that  lay  over 


294  A  THING  APART 

a  chair-back,  shook  it  open,  and  threw  it 
Indian  fashion,  over  both  their  shoulders. 
"I've  twisted  Aunt  Ellen's  conventional 
soul  on  the  rack  these  last  five  days,  so 
we'll  sit  outside  even  if  we  freeze. " 

So,  wrapped  in  a  grotesque  bundle, 
they  sat  down  on  the  top  step  of  the  log 
stairway. 

"What  did  you  say  about  dad?"  he 
asked  her.  His  mind  was  still  one-pathed 
and  still  led  to  mystery. 

"The  night  you  left  he  came  to  see  us," 
she  told  him  simply.  "He — he — it  seems 
he  heard  what  I  said  to  you  that  day  by 
your  mother;  and — I  think  it  doesn't 
matter  now,  all  that  he  said,"  her  voice 
broke  a  little,  "all  that  matters  is,  that  he 
made  me  understand." 

"Made  you  understand  what,  Judith?" 
His  voice  had  become  his  own  again, 
touched  with  a  doubt  that  made  her  quick 
answer  very  positive. 

"That  I  have  been  wrong — that  the  only 


DON'T  YOU  WANT  ME  295 

thing  in  all  the  world  for  me  to  do,  is  to 
marry  the  man  I  love." 

A  sharp  ejaculation  burst  from  his  lips ; 
he  dropped  her  hands,  and  straightened 
away  from  her. 

"I'm  afraid  you  don't  understand;  I 
lied  to  you  once  when  there  was  no  need 
for  lying — when  you  didn't  have  any  rea- 
son to  doubt  me.  Now,  you  have." 

* '  Yes, ' '  she  said,  very  low.  ' '  It  was  my 
fault.  I — I  think  I  understand."  She 
lifted  her  face  to  his  and  before  the  light 
in  her  brown  eyes  his  heart  was  healed  of 
all  its  hurt. 

After  a  silence  that  was  greatly  good, 
he  said,  wonderingly : 

"That  must  have  been  a  hard,  hard 
thing  for  dad  to  do — to  go  to  you." 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  said,  and  shivered  in  his 
encircling  arms,  "it  must  be  terrible  to 
feel  as  he  does;.... he  was  so  tense,  so 
still ....  Aunt  Ellen  kissed  him  when  he 
left.  I  shan't  ever  forget  how  he  looked 


296  A  THING  APART 

....  I  made  everybody  stay  up  half  the 
night  and  pack.  We  left  on  the  morning 
train. " 

Dane  said  nothing ;  he  knew  the  things 
his  father  must  have  said,  though  Judith 
never  told  him,  and  he  knew  with  white- 
hot  gratitude  the  pain  of  pride  his  father 
had  borne  for  him. 

"How  terribly,  terribly  still  it  is," 
whispered  Judith. 

"Yes;  you  can  hear  things  worth  while 
out  here ;  I  can  hear  the  beating  of  your 
heart, ' '  he  said.  * '  I — I  wish  you  liked  the 
West." 

She  looked  out  ahead,  and  there  were 
only  hills. .  .hills. .  .hills  climbing  higher 
and  higher  into  purple  misted  mountains. 
Hills  and  stars  and  moonlight. 

"I'll  learn  my  husband's  love  for  it," 
she  answered  to  the  wistfulness  in  his 
voice.  "New  York  is  lonelier  than  this — • 
without  you." 

The  door  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  opened 


DON'T  YOU  WANT  ME  297 

and  a  warning  "hoo-hoo,"  emerged  cau- 
tiously in  advance  of  Mrs.  Lawson's  tall, 
straight-shouldered  figure.  Dane  started 
from  his  blanket  cocoon,  but  was  held 
back  by  an  undisturbed  Judith.  "Silly, 
don't  you  suppose  she'll  see  us  loving 

each  other  all  the  rest  of  our  lives 

Here  we  are,  Aunt  Ellen ;  has  it  been  fif- 
teen minutes?" 

"It  has.  Good  morning,  Dane;  why, 
I'm  quite  well,  thank  you,  considering  the 
fact  that  I  haven't  had  any  sleep  for  five 
nights  and  have  been  in  a  train  wreck  be- 
sides," the  accusing  bruskness  of  her  voice 
was  offset  by  a  strange  huskiness.  "But 
I'll  be  grateful  if  you  can  convince  that 
modern  cave  woman  that  she's  perma- 
nently run  you  to  earth,  and  induce  her 
to  leave  you  a  few  hours.  If  I  don't  get 
you  two  married  by  to-morrow — " 

Here  she  was  silenced  by  assurances  of 
their  hearty  cooperation,  but  she  per- 
severed, almost  plaintively: 


A  THING  APAET 

"Judith,  do  come  on,  dear.  Don't  be  so 
inhuman.  If  those  are  Dane's  bare 
ankles  that  I  think  I  see,  he'll  have  pneu- 
monia by  morning." 

"All  right,  Aunt  Ellen,  I'll  come  this 
minute.  You — you  don't  need  to  wait." 

So  Aunt  Ellen  obediently  left  them  to 
the  sweetness  of  their  last  minute. 

"Judith,"  Dane  said  huskily,  like  one 
humbled  before  the  supremacy  of  an  im- 
partial law,  "there's  no  putting  aside  a 
real  love,  is  there?" 

And  Judith,  wholly  modern  but  wholly 
woman,  burnt  her  theories  on  the  same 
altar. 

After  she  had  gone  he  stood  a  while, 
wrapped  like  an  Indian  in  his  blanket, 
looking  out  over  the  hills;  and  the  last 
words  his  mother's  voice  had  touched, 
seemed  to  be  part  of  the  silence. 

"I  will  lift  up  mine  eyes  to  the  hills, 
from  whence  cometh  my  help." 

Standing  there,  a  surpassing  quietude 


DON'T  YOU  WANT  MB  299 

fell  upon  him,  as  if  he  were  healed  of  fear 
by  gentle  trusted  hands,  and  strengthened 
by  the  surety  that  death  is  only  the  be- 
ginning of  a  greater  love. 

When  he  went  inside,  he  turned  his 
mother's  picture  toward  his  bed,  so  that 
the  moonlight  shone  full  upon  it. 

" Little  old  mother,"  he  muttered  once, 
before  he  went  to  sleep. 

THE  END 


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